The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 50

Blithe Robin is heard no more: He gave us his song When summer was o'er And winter was long: He sang for his bread and now he is fled Away to his secret nest.

And there in the green Early and late Alone to his mate He pipeth unseen And swelleth his breast; For us it is o'er:-- Blithe Robin is heard no more.

8

Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray:

White b.u.t.terflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and h.o.a.ry pear Scatter their snow around.

9

My eyes for beauty pine, My soul for G.o.ddes grace: No other care nor hope is mine; To heaven I turn my face.

One splendour thence is shed From all the stars above: 'Tis named when G.o.d's name is said, 'Tis Love, 'tis heavenly Love.

And every gentle heart, That burns with true desire, Is lit from eyes that mirror part Of that celestial fire.

10

O Love, my muse, how was't for me Among the best to dare, In thy high courts that bowed the knee With sacrifice and prayer?

Their mighty offerings at thy shrine Shamed me, who nothing bore Their suits were mockeries of mine, I sued for so much more.

Full many I met that crowned with bay In triumph home returned, And many a master on the way Proud of the prize I scorned.

I wished no garland on my head Nor treasure in my hand; My gift the longing that me led, My prayer thy high command,

My love, my muse; and when I spake Thou mad'st me thine that day, And more than hundred hearts could take Gav'st me to bear away.

11

Love on my heart from heaven fell, Soft as the dew on flowers of spring, Sweet as the hidden drops that swell Their honey-throated chalicing.

Now never from him do I part, Hosanna evermore I cry: I taste his savour in my heart, And bid all praise him as do I.

Without him noughtsoever is, Nor was afore, nor e'er shall be: Nor any other joy than his Wish I for mine to comfort me.

12

The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.

But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier.

A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak.

Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling: And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.

13

THE WINDMILL

The green corn waving in the dale, The ripe gra.s.s waving on the hill: I lean across the paddock pale And gaze upon the giddy mill.

Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound Each strikes in fury down the steep, Rattles, and whirls in chase around.

Beside his sacks the miller stands On high within the open door: A book and pencil in his hands, His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er.

His tireless merry slave the wind Is busy with his work to-day: From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind; He hath a will and knows the way.

He gives the creaking sails a spin, The circling millstones faster flee, The shuddering timbers groan within, And down the shoot the meal runs free.

The miller giveth him no thanks, And doth not much his work o'erlook: He stands beside the sacks, and ranks The figures in his dusty book.

14

When June is come, then all the day I'll sit with my love in the scented hay: And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home.

O life is delight when June is come.

15

The pinks along my garden walks Have all shot forth their summer stalks, Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot, And blue forget-me-not.

Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soon Will lade the idle breath of June: And waken thro' the fragrant night To steal the pale moonlight.

The nightingale at end of May Lingers each year for their display; Till when he sees their blossoms blown, He knows the spring is flown.

June's birth they greet, and when their bloom Disl.u.s.tres, withering on his tomb, Then summer hath a shortening day; And steps slow to decay.

16

Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow Pierces the veil of timeless night: Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow Their floods to a beam of gentle light, To charm with a moon-ray quenched from fire The land of delight, the land of desire!

Smile of love, a flower planted, Sprung in the garden of joy that art: Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted, Whose spreading fires encircle my heart, And warm with a noon-ray drenched in fire My land of delight, my land of desire!

17

The idle life I lead Is like a pleasant sleep, Wherein I rest and heed The dreams that by me sweep.