The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 55

Send them here to the court of grace Bearing your name to fill your place: Ye in their time shall live again The happy dream of Henry's reign:

And on his day your steps be bent Where, saint and king, crowned with content, He biddeth a prayer to bless his youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth.

15

The north wind came up yesternight With the new year's full moon, And rising as she gained her height, Grew to a tempest soon.

Yet found he not on heaven's face A task of cloud to clear; There was no speck that he might chase Off the blue hemisphere, Nor vapour from the land to drive: The frost-bound country held Nought motionable or alive, That 'gainst his wrath rebelled.

There scarce was hanging in the wood A shrivelled leaf to reave; No bud had burst its swathing hood That he could rend or grieve: Only the tall tree-skeletons, Where they were shadowed all, Wavered a little on the stones, And on the white church-wall.

--Like as an artist in his mood, Who reckons all as nought, So he may quickly paint his nude, Unutterable thought: So Nature in a frenzied hour By day or night will show Dim indications of the power That doometh man to woe.

Ah, many have my visions been, And some I know full well: I would that all that I have seen Were fit for speech to tell.--

And by the churchyard as I came, It seemed my spirit pa.s.sed Into a land that hath no name, Grey, melancholy and vast; Where nothing comes: but Memory, The widowed queen of Death, Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye All slumber banisheth.

Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes That sickly, staring sh.o.r.e, Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore.

And ghosts of cities long decayed And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate.

Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Nor the pale night of day, Since the old king with scorpion sting Hath done himself away.

The morn was calm; the wind's last breath Had fal'n: in solemn hush The golden moon went down beneath The dawning's crimson flush.

16

NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER

In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire; The lime hath stripped to the cold, And standeth naked above her yellow attire: The larch thinneth her spire To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright In the forest of flame, and wave aloft To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, As the harrying North-wind beareth A cloud of skirmishing hail The grieved woodland to smite: In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, And whistleth to the descending Blows of his icy flail.

Gold and snow he mixeth in spite, And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight He pa.s.seth, and all again for awhile is bright.

17

FIRST SPRING MORNING

A CHILD'S POEM.

Look! Look! the spring is come: O feel the gentle air, That wanders thro' the boughs to burst The thick buds everywhere!

The birds are glad to see The high unclouded sun: Winter is fled away, they sing, The gay time is begun.

Adown the meadows green Let us go dance and play, And look for violets in the lane, And ramble far away To gather primroses, That in the woodland grow, And hunt for oxlips, or if yet The blades of bluebells show:

There the old woodman gruff Hath half the coppice cut, And weaves the hurdles all day long Beside his willow hut.

We'll steal on him, and then Startle him, all with glee Singing our song of winter fled And summer soon to be.

18

A VILLAGER

There was no lad handsomer than Willie was The day that he came to father's house: There was none had an eye as soft an' blue As Willie's was, when he came to woo.

To a labouring life though bound thee be, An' I on my father's ground live free, I'll take thee, I said, for thy manly grace, Thy gentle voice an' thy loving face.

'Tis forty years now since we were wed: We are ailing an' grey needs not to be said: But Willie's eye is as blue an' soft As the day when he wooed me in father's croft.

Yet changed am I in body an' mind, For Willie to me has ne'er been kind: Merrily drinking an' singing with the men He 'ud come home late six nights o' the se'n.

An' since the children be grown an' gone He 'as shunned the house an' left me lone: An' less an' less he brings me in Of the little he now has strength to win.

The roof lets through the wind an' the wet, An' master won't mend it with us in 's debt: An' all looks every day more worn, An' the best of my gowns be shabby an' torn.

No wonder if words hav' a-grown to blows; That matters not while n.o.body knows: For love him I shall to the end of life, An' be, as I swore, his own true wife.

An' when I am gone, he'll turn, an' see His folly an' wrong, an' be sorry for me: An' come to me there in the land o' bliss To give me the love I looked for in this.

19

Weep not to-day: why should this sadness be?

Learn in present fears To o'ermaster those tears That unhindered conquer thee.

Think on thy past valour, thy future praise: Up, sad heart, nor faint In ungracious complaint, Or a prayer for better days.

Daily thy life shortens, the grave's dark peace Draweth surely nigh, When good-night is good-bye; For the sleeping shall not cease.

Fight, to be found fighting: nor far away Deem, nor strange thy doom.

Like this sorrow 'twill come, And the day will be to-day.

NEW POEMS

[Ill.u.s.tration: decoration]

_PREVIOUS EDITION_

_Collected for the first time in 1899. Smith, Elder & Co. Vol. II.

See notes at end of that volume._