The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 45

The freshets are unbound, And leaping from the hill, Their mossy banks refill With streams of light and sound: And scattered down the meads, From hour to hour unfold A thousand buds and beads In stars and cups of gold.

Now hear, and see, and note, The farms are all astir, And every labourer Has doffed his winter coat; And how with specks of white They dot the brown hillside, Or jaunt and sing outright As by their teams they stride.

They sing to feel the Sun Regain his wanton strength; To know the year at length Rewards their labour done; To see the rootless stake They set bare in the ground, Burst into leaf, and shake Its grateful scent around.

Ah now an evil lot Is his, who toils for gain, Where crowded chimneys stain The heavens his choice forgot; 'Tis on the blighted trees That deck his garden dim, And in the tainted breeze, That sweet Spring comes to him.

Far sooner I would choose The life of brutes that bask, Than set myself a task, Which inborn powers refuse: And rather far enjoy The body, than invent A duty, to destroy The ease which nature sent;

And country life I praise, And lead, because I find The philosophic mind Can take no middle ways; She will not leave her love To mix with men, her art Is all to strive above The crowd, or stand apart.

Thrice happy he, the rare Prometheus, who can play With hidden things, and lay New realms of nature bare; Whose venturous step has trod h.e.l.l underfoot, and won A crown from man and G.o.d For all that he has done.--

That highest gift of all, Since crabbed fate did flood My heart with sluggish blood, I look not mine to call; But, like a truant freed, Fly to the woods, and claim A pleasure for the deed Of my inglorious name:

And am content, denied The best, in choosing right; For Nature can delight Fancies unoccupied With ecstasies so sweet As none can even guess, Who walk not with the feet Of joy in idleness.

Then leave your joyless ways, My friend, my joys to see.

The day you come shall be The choice of chosen days: You shall be lost, and learn New being, and forget The world, till your return Shall bring your first regret.

9

SPRING

ODE II

REPLY

Behold! the radiant Spring, In splendour decked anew, Down from her heaven of blue Returns on sunlit wing: The zephyrs of her train In fleecy clouds disport, And birds to greet her reign Summon their silvan court.

And here in street and square The prisoned trees contest Her favour with the best, To robe themselves full fair: And forth their buds provoke, Forgetting winter brown, And all the mire and smoke That wrapped the dingy town.

Now he that loves indeed His pleasure must awake, Lest any pleasure take Its flight, and he not heed; For of his few short years Another now invites His hungry soul, and cheers His life with new delights.

And who loves Nature more Than he, whose painful art Has taught and skilled his heart To read her skill and lore?

Whose spirit leaps more high, Plucking the pale primrose, Than his whose feet must fly The pasture where it grows?

One long in city pent Forgets, or must complain: But think not I can stain My heaven with discontent; Nor wallow with that sad, Backsliding herd, who cry That Truth must make man bad, And pleasure is a lie.

Rather while Reason lives To mark me from the beast, I'll teach her serve at least To heal the wound she gives: Nor need she strain her powers Beyond a common flight, To make the pa.s.sing hours Happy from morn till night.

Since health our toil rewards, And strength is labour's prize, I hate not, nor despise The work my lot accords; Nor fret with fears unkind The tender joys, that bless My hard-won peace of mind, In hours of idleness.

Then what charm company Can give, know I,--if wine Go round, or throats combine To set dumb music free.

Or deep in wintertide When winds without make moan, I love my own fireside Not least when most alone.

Then oft I turn the page In which our country's name, Spoiling the Greek of fame, Shall sound in every age: Or some Terentian play Renew, whose excellent Adjusted folds betray How once Menander went.

Or if grave study suit The yet unwearied brain, Plato can teach again, And Socrates dispute; Till fancy in a dream Confront their souls with mine, Crowning the mind supreme, And her delights divine.

While pleasure yet can be Pleasant, and fancy sweet, I bid all care retreat From my philosophy; Which, when I come to try Your simpler life, will find, I doubt not, joys to vie With those I leave behind.

10

ELEGY

AMONG THE TOMBS

Sad, sombre place, beneath whose antique yews I come, unquiet sorrows to control; Amid thy silent mossgrown graves to muse With my neglected solitary soul; And to poetic sadness care confide, Trusting sweet Melancholy for my guide:

They will not ask why in thy shades I stray, Among the tombs finding my rare delight, Beneath the sun at indolent noonday, Or in the windy moon-enchanted night, Who have once reined in their steeds at any shrine, And given them water from the well divine.--

The orchards are all ripened, and the sun Spots the deserted gleanings with decay; The seeds are perfected: his work is done, And Autumn lingers but to outsmile the May; Bidding his tinted leaves glide, bidding clear Unto clear skies the birds applaud the year.

Lo, here I sit, and to the world I call, The world my solemn fancy leaves behind, Come! pa.s.s within the inviolable wall, Come pride, come pleasure, come distracted mind; Within the fated refuge, hither, turn, And learn your wisdom ere 'tis late to learn.

Come with me now, and taste the fount of tears; For many eyes have sanctified this spot, Where grief's unbroken lineage endears The charm untimely Folly injures not, And slays the intruding thoughts, that overleap The simple fence its holiness doth keep.

Read the worn names of the forgotten dead, Their pompous legends will no smile awake; Even the vainglorious t.i.tle o'er the head Wins its pride pardon for its sorrow's sake; And carven Loves scorn not their dusty prize, Though fallen so far from tender sympathies.

Here where a mother laid her only son, Here where a lover left his bride, below The treasured names their own are added on To those whom they have followed long ago: Sealing the record of the tears they shed, That 'where their treasure there their hearts are fled.'

Grandfather, father, son, and then again Child, grandchild, and great-grandchild laid beneath Numbered in turn among the sons of men, And gathered each one in his turn to death: While he that occupies their house and name To-day,--to-morrow too their grave shall claim.

And where are all the spirits? Ah! could we tell The manner of our being when we die, And see beyond the scene we know so well, The country that so much obscured doth lie!

With brightest visions our fond hopes repair, Or crown our melancholy with despair;

From death, still death, still would a comfort come: Since of this world the essential joy must fall In all distributed, in each thing some, In nothing all, and all complete in all; Till pleasure, ageing to her full increase, Puts on perfection, and is throned in peace.

Yea, sweetest peace, unsought-for, undesired, Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here: Though in most black habiliments attired, Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear.

Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sit And praise the annihilation of the pit.

Nor quickly disenchanted will my feet Back to the busy town return, but yet Linger, ere I my loving friends would greet, Or touch their hands, or share without regret The warmth of that kind hearth, whose sacred ties Only shall dim with tears my dying eyes.

11

DEJECTION

Wherefore to-night so full of care, My soul, revolving hopeless strife, Pointing at hindrance, and the bare Painful escapes of fitful life?

Shaping the doom that may befall By precedent of terror past: By love dishonoured, and the call Of friendship slighted at the last?

By treasured names, the little store That memory out of wreck could save Of loving hearts, that gone before Call their old comrade to the grave?

O soul, be patient: thou shall find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.