The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 47

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!

Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride;--ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance att.i.tude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither he taken thee?

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

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THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS MISTRESS

Because thou canst not see, Because thou canst not know The black and hopeless woe That hath encompa.s.sed me: Because, should I confess The thought of my despair, My words would wound thee less Than swords can hurt the air:

Because with thee I seem As one invited near To taste the faery cheer Of spirits in a dream; Of whom he knoweth nought Save that they vie to make All motion, voice and thought A pleasure for his sake:

Therefore more sweet and strange Has been the mystery Of thy long love to me, That doth not quit, nor change, Nor tax my solemn heart, That kisseth in a gloom, Knowing not who thou art That givest, nor to whom.

Therefore the tender touch Is more; more dear the smile: And thy light words beguile My wisdom overmuch: And O with swiftness fly The fancies of my song To happy worlds, where I Still in thy love belong.

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Haste on, my joys! your treasure lies In swift, unceasing flight.

O haste: for while your beauty flies I seize your full delight.

Lo! I have seen the scented flower, Whose tender stems I cull, For her brief date and meted hour Appear more beautiful.

O youth, O strength, O most divine For that so short ye prove; Were but your rare gifts longer mine, Ye scarce would win my love.

Nay, life itself the heart would spurn, Did once the days restore The days, that once enjoyed return, Return--ah! nevermore.

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INDOLENCE

We left the city when the summer day Had verged already on its hot decline, And charmed Indolence in languor lay In her gay gardens, 'neath her towers divine: 'Farewell,' we said, 'dear city of youth and dream!'

And in our boat we stepped and took the stream.

All through that idle afternoon we strayed Upon our proposed travel well begun, As loitering by the woodland's dreamy shade, Past shallow islets floating in the sun, Or searching down the banks for rarer flowers We lingered out the pleasurable hours.

Till when that loveliest came, which mowers home Turns from their longest labour, as we steered Along a straitened channel flecked with foam, We lost our landscape wide, and slowly neared An ancient bridge, that like a blind wall lay Low on its buried vaults to block the way.

Then soon the narrow tunnels broader showed, Where with its arches three it sucked the ma.s.s Of water, that in swirl thereunder flowed, Or stood piled at the piers waiting to pa.s.s; And pulling for the middle span, we drew The tender blades aboard and floated through.

But past the bridge what change we found below!

The stream, that all day long had laughed and played Betwixt the happy shires, ran dark and slow, And with its easy flood no murmur made: And weeds spread on its surface, and about The stagnant margin reared their stout heads out.

Upon the left high elms, with giant wood Skirting the water-meadows, interwove Their slumbrous crowns, o'ershadowing where they stood The floor and heavy pillars of the grove: And in the shade, through reeds and sedges dank, A footpath led along the moated bank.

Across, all down the right, an old brick wall, Above and o'er the channel, red did lean; Here b.u.t.tressed up, and bulging there to fall, Tufted with gra.s.s and plants and lichen green; And crumbling to the flood, which at its base Slid gently nor disturbed its mirrored face.

Sheer on the wall the houses rose, their backs All windowless, neglected and awry, With tottering coigns, and crooked chimney stacks; And here and there an unused door, set high Above the fragments of its mouldering stair, With rail and broken step led out on air.

Beyond, deserted wharfs and vacant sheds, With empty boats and barges moored along, And rafts half-sunken, fringed with weedy shreds, And sodden beams, once soaked to season strong.

No sight of man, nor sight of life, no stroke, No voice the somnolence and silence broke.

Then I who rowed leant on my oar, whose drip Fell without sparkle, and I rowed no more; And he that steered moved neither hand nor lip, But turned his wondering eye from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; And our trim boat let her swift motion die, Between the dim reflections floating by.

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I praise the tender flower, That on a mournful day Bloomed in my garden bower And made the winter gay.

Its loveliness contented My heart tormented.

I praise the gentle maid Whose happy voice and smile To confidence betrayed My doleful heart awhile: And gave my spirit deploring Fresh wings for soaring.

The maid for very fear Of love I durst not tell: The rose could never hear, Though I bespake her well: So in my song I bind them For all to find them.

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A winter's night with the snow about: 'Twas silent within and cold without: Both father and mother to bed were gone: The son sat yet by the fire alone.

He gazed on the fire, and dreamed again Of one that was now no more among men: As still he sat and never aware How close was the spirit beside his chair.

Nay, sad were his thoughts, for he wept and said Ah, woe for the dead! ah, woe for the dead!

How heavy the earth lies now on her breast, The lips that I kissed, and the hand I pressed.

The spirit he saw not, he could not hear The comforting word she spake in his ear: His heart in the grave with her mouldering clay No welcome gave--and she fled away.

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My bed and pillow are cold, My heart is faint with dread, The air hath an odour of mould, I dream I lie with the dead: I cannot move, O come to me, Love, Or else I am dead.

The feet I hear on the floor Tread heavily overhead: O Love, come down to the door, Come, Love, come, ere I be dead: Make shine thy light, O Love, in the night; Or else I am dead.

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