The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 37

33

I care not if I live, tho' life and breath Have never been to me so dear and sweet.

I care not if I die, for I coud meet-- Being so happy--happily my death.

I care not if I love; to-day she saith She loveth, and love's history is complete.

Nor care I if she love me; at her feet My spirit bows entranced and worshippeth.

I have no care for what was most my care, But all around me see fresh beauty born, And common sights grown lovelier than they were: I dream of love, and in the light of morn Tremble, beholding all things very fair And strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

34

_O my G.o.ddess divine_ sometimes I say:-- Now let this word for ever and all suffice; Thou art insatiable, and yet not twice Can even thy lover give his soul away: And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay; For never any other, by device Of wisdom, love or beauty, could entice My homage to the measure of this day.

I have no more to give thee: lo, I have sold My life, have emptied out my heart, and spent Whate'er I had; till like a beggar, bold With nought to lose, I laugh and am content.

A beggar kisses thee; nay, love, behold, I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

35

All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof, To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above: Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof, That few there be are wean'd from earthly love.

Joy's ladder it is, reaching from home to home, The best of all the work that all was good; Whereof 'twas writ the angels aye upclomb, Down sped, and at the top the Lord G.o.d stood.

But I my time abuse, my eyes by day Center'd on thee, by night my heart on fire-- Letting my number'd moments run away-- Nor e'en 'twixt night and day to heaven aspire: So true it is that what the eye seeth not But slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

36

O my life's mischief, once my love's delight, That drew'st a mortgage on my heart's estate, Whose baneful clause is never out of date, Nor can avenging time restore my right: Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite, Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate: That art the well-loved cause of all my hate, The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night:

Thou being in all my lacking all I lack, It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime, Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back; Wherefore my feet go out of step with time, My very grasp of life is old and slack, And even my pa.s.sion falters in my rhyme.

37

At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dust I race by field or highway, and my horse Spare not, but urge direct in headlong course Unto some fair far hill that gain I must: But near arrived the vision soon mistrust, Rein in, and stand as one who sees the source Of strong illusion, shaming thought to force From off his mind the soil of pa.s.sion's gust.

My brow I bare then, and with slacken'd speed Can view the country pleasant on all sides, And to kind salutation give good heed: I ride as one who for his pleasure rides, And stroke the neck of my delighted steed, And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

38

An idle June day on the sunny Thames, Floating or rowing as our fancy led, Now in the high beams basking as we sped, Now in green shade gliding by mirror'd stems; By lock and weir and isle, and many a spot Of memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill, Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not ill The heavenly Muse, tho' she requite them not:

I would have life--thou saidst--all as this day, Simple enjoyment calm in its excess, With not a grief to cloud, and not a ray Of pa.s.sion overhot my peace to oppress; With no ambition to reproach delay, Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

39

A man that sees by chance his picture, made As once a child he was, handling some toy, Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy, Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray'd: He cannot think the simple thought which play'd Upon those features then so frank and coy; 'Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o'er the joy His fatherly pity bends in tears dismay'd.

Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best, And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high, In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:-- Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie, The one thing lost more worth than all the rest, Which seeing, he fears to say _This child was I_.

40

Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care, Comforting tears that fell uncomforted, Tears o'er the new-born, tears beside the dead, Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer, Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe'er Of tenderness or kindness had she shed Who here is pictured, ere upon her head The fine gold might be turn'd to silver there.

The smile that charm'd the father hath given place Unto the furrow'd care wrought by the son; But virtue hath transform'd all change to grace: So that I praise the artist, who hath done A portrait, for my worship, of the face Won by the heart my father's heart that won.

41

If I coud but forget and not recall So well my time of pleasure and of play, When ancient nature was all new and gay, Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,-- Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small, Nor dream'd what fearful searchings underlay The flowers and leafy ecstasy of May, The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall:

Coud I forget, then were the fight not hard, Press'd in the melee of accursed things, Having such help in love and such reward: But that 'tis I who once--'tis this that stings-- Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard, Where yet I'd be had I but heavenly wings.

42

When I see childhood on the threshold seize The prize of life from age and likelihood, I mourn time's change that will not be withstood, Thinking how Christ said _Be like one of these_.

For in the forest among many trees Scarce one in all is found that hath made good The virgin pattern of its slender wood, That courtesied in joy to every breeze;

But scath'd, but knotted trunks that raise on high Their arms in stiff contortion, strain'd and bare; Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.

So, little children, ye--nay nay, ye ne'er From me shall learn how sure the change and nigh, When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

43

When parch'd with thirst, astray on sultry sand The traveller faints, upon his closing ear Steals a fantastic music: he may hear The babbling fountain of his native land.

Before his eyes the vision seems to stand, Where at its terraced brink the maids appear, Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear, And not refuse the help of lover's hand.

O cruel jest--he cries, as some one flings The sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire-- O shameless, O contempt of holy things.

But never of their wanton play they tire, As not athirst they sit beside the springs, While he must quench in death his lost desire.

44

The image of thy love, rising on dark And desperate days over my sullen sea, Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me, Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.

Whate'er my sorrow be, I then may hark A loving voice: whate'er my terror be, This heavenly comfort still I win from thee, To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark.

Prodigal nature makes us but to taste One perfect joy, which given she n.i.g.g.ard grows; And lest her precious gift should run to waste, Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes: So to the memory of the gift that graced Her hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

45

In this neglected, ruin'd edifice Of works unperfected and broken schemes, Where is the promise of my early dreams, The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?

No charm is left now that could once entice Wind-wavering fortune from her golden streams, And full in flight decrepit purpose seems, Trailing the banner of his old device.