The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 52

Whence came he hither all alone Among our folk to spy?

There's nought that we can call our own, Till he shall hap to die.

And I would dig his grave full deep Beneath the churchyard yew, Lest thence his wizard eyes might peep To mark the things we do.

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Crown Winter with green, And give him good drink To physic his spleen Or ever he think.

His mouth to the bowl, His feet to the fire; And let him, good soul, No comfort desire.

So merry he be, I bid him abide: And merry be we This good Yuletide.

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The snow lies sprinkled on the beach, And whitens all the marshy lea: The sad gulls wail adown the gale, The day is dark and black the sea.

Shorn of their crests the blighted waves With driven foam the offing fleck: The ebb is low and barely laves The red rust of the giant wreck.

On such a stony, breaking beach My childhood chanced and chose to be: 'Twas here I played, and musing made My friend the melancholy sea.

He from his dim enchanted caves With shuddering roar and onrush wild Fell down in sacrificial waves At feet of his exulting child.

Unto a spirit too light for fear His wrath was mirth, his wail was glee:-- My heart is now too fixed to bow Tho' all his tempests howl at me: For to the gain life's summer saves, My solemn joy's increasing store, The tossing of his mournful waves Makes sweetest music evermore.

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My spirit kisseth thine, My spirit embraceth thee: I feel thy being twine Her graces over me, In the life-kindling fold Of G.o.d's breath; where on high, In furthest s.p.a.ce untold Like a lost world I lie:

And o'er my dreaming plains Lightens, most pale and fair, A moon that never wanes; Or more, if I compare,

Like what the shepherd sees On late mid-winter dawns, When thro' the branched trees, O'er the white-frosted lawns,

The huge unclouded sun, Surprising the world whist, Is all uprisen thereon, Golden with melting mist.

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Ariel, O,--my angel, my own,-- Whither away then art thou flown Beyond my spirit's dominion?

That makest my heart run over with rhyme, Renewing at will my youth for a time, My servant, my pretty minion.

Now indeed I have cause to mourn, Now thou returnest scorn for scorn: Leave me not to my folly: For when thou art with me is none so gay As I, and none when thou'rt away Was ever so melancholy.

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LAUS DEO

Let praise devote thy work, and skill employ Thy whole mind, and thy heart be lost in joy.

Well-doing bringeth pride, this constant thought Humility, that thy best done is nought.

Man doeth nothing well, be it great or small, Save to praise G.o.d; but that hath saved all: For G.o.d requires no more than thou hast done, And takes thy work to bless it for his own.

BOOK V

DEDICATED TO M. G. K.

I

THE WINNOWERS

Betwixt two billows of the downs The little hamlet lies, And nothing sees but the bald crowns Of the hills, and the blue skies.

Cl.u.s.tering beneath the long descent And grey slopes of the wold, The red roofs nestle, oversprent With lichen yellow as gold.

We found it in the mid-day sun Basking, what time of year The thrush his singing has begun, Ere the first leaves appear.

High from his load a woodman pitched His f.a.ggots on the stack: Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitched Sweet hay from crib and rack:

And from the barn hard by was borne A steady m.u.f.fled din, By which we knew that threshed corn Was winnowing, and went in.

The sunbeams on the motey air Streamed through the open door, And on the brown arms moving bare, And the grain upon the floor.

One turns the crank, one stoops to feed The hopper, lest it lack, One in the bushel scoops the seed, One stands to hold the sack.

We watched the good grain rattle down, And the awns fly in the draught; To see us both so pensive grown The honest labourers laughed:

Merry they were, because the wheat Was clean and plump and good, Pleasant to hand and eye, and meet For market and for food.

It chanced we from the city were, And had not gat us free In spirit from the store and stir Of its immensity:

But here we found ourselves again.

Where humble harvests bring After much toil but little grain, 'Tis merry winnowing.

2

THE AFFLICTION OF RICHARD

Love not too much. But how, When thou hast made me such, And dost thy gifts bestow, How can I love too much?

Though I must fear to lose, And drown my joy in care, With all its thorns I choose The path of love and prayer.

Though thou, I know not why, Didst kill my childish trust, That breach with toil did I Repair, because I must: And spite of frighting schemes, With which the fiends of h.e.l.l Blaspheme thee in my dreams, So far I have hoped well.

But what the heavenly key, What marvel in me wrought Shall quite exculpate thee, I have no shadow of thought.

What am I that complain?