The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 62

Beyond, afar the widening view Merges into the soften'd blue, Cornfield and forest, hill and stream, Fair England in her pastoral dream.

To one who looketh from this hill Life seems asleep, all is so still: Nought pa.s.seth save the travelling shade Of clouds on high that float and fade:

Nor since this landscape saw the sun Might other motion o'er it run, Till to man's scheming heart it came To make a steed of steel and flame.

Him may you mark in every vale Moving beneath his fleecy trail, And tell whene'er the motions die Where every town and hamlet lie.

He gives the distance life to-day, Rushing upon his level'd way From man's abode to man's abode, And mocks the Roman's vaunted road,

Which o'er the moor purple and dun Still wanders white beneath the sun, Deserted now of men and lone Save for this cot of native stone.

There ever by the whiten'd wall Standeth a maiden fair and tall, And all day long in vacant dream Watcheth afar the flying steam.

25

SCREAMING TARN

The saddest place that e'er I saw Is the deep tarn above the inn That crowns the mountain-road, whereby One southward bound his way must win.

Sunk on the table of the ridge From its deep sh.o.r.es is nought to see: The unresting wind lashes and chills Its shivering ripples ceaselessly.

Three sides 'tis banked with stones aslant, And down the fourth the rushes grow, And yellow sedge fringing the edge With lengthen'd image all arow.

'Tis square and black, and on its face When noon is still, the mirror'd sky Looks dark and further from the earth Than when you gaze at it on high.

At mid of night, if one be there, --So say the people of the hill-- A fearful shriek of death is heard, One sudden scream both loud and shrill.

And some have seen on stilly nights, And when the moon was clear and round, Bubbles which to the surface swam And burst as if they held the sound.--

'Twas in the days ere hapless Charles Losing his crown had lost his head, This tale is told of him who kept The inn upon the watershed:

He was a lowbred ruin'd man Whom lawless times set free from fear: One evening to his house there rode A young and gentle cavalier.

With curling hair and linen fair And jewel-hilted sword he went; The horse he rode he had ridden far, And he was with his journey spent.

He asked a lodging for the night, His valise from his steed unbound, He let none bear it but himself And set it by him on the ground.

'Here's gold or jewels,' thought the host, 'That's carrying south to find the king.'

He chattered many a loyal word, And sc.r.a.ps of royal airs gan sing.

His guest thereat grew more at ease And o'er his wine he gave a toast, But little ate, and to his room Carried his sack behind the host.

'Now rest you well,' the host he said, But of his wish the word fell wide; Nor did he now forget his son Who fell in fight by Cromwell's side.

Revenge and poverty have brought Full gentler heart than his to crime; And he was one by nature rude, Born to foul deeds at any time.

With unshod feet at dead of night In stealth he to the guest-room crept, Lantern and dagger in his hand, And stabbed his victim while he slept.

But as he struck a scream there came, A fearful scream so loud and shrill: He whelm'd the face with pillows o'er, And lean'd till all had long been still.

Then to the face the flame he held To see there should no life remain:-- When lo! his brutal heart was quell'd: 'Twas a fair woman he had slain.

The tan upon her face was paint, The manly hair was torn away, Soft was the breast that he had pierced; Beautiful in her death she lay.

His was no heart to faint at crime, Tho' half he wished the deed undone.

He pulled the valise from the bed To find what booty he had won.

He cut the straps, and pushed within His murderous fingers to their theft.

A deathly sweat came o'er his brow, He had no sense nor meaning left.

He touched not gold, it was not cold, It was not hard, it felt like flesh.

He drew out by the curling hair A young man's head, and murder'd fresh;

A young man's head, cut by the neck.

But what was dreader still to see, Her whom he had slain he saw again, The twain were like as like can be.

Brother and sister if they were, Both in one shroud they now were wound,-- Across his back and down the stair, Out of the house without a sound.

He made his way unto the tarn, The night was dark and still and dank; The ripple chuckling neath the boat Laughed as he drew it to the bank.

Upon the bottom of the boat He laid his burden flat and low, And on them laid the square sandstones That round about the margin go.

Stone upon stone he weighed them down, Until the boat would hold no more; The freeboard now was scarce an inch: He stripp'd his clothes and push'd from sh.o.r.e.

All naked to the middle pool He swam behind in the dark night; And there he let the water in And sank his terror out of sight.

He swam ash.o.r.e, and donn'd his dress, And sc.r.a.ped his b.l.o.o.d.y fingers clean; Ran home and on his victim's steed Mounted, and never more was seen.

But to a comrade ere he died He told his story guess'd of none: So from his lips the crime returned To haunt the spot where it was done.

26

THE ISLE OF ACHILLES

(FROM THE GREEK)

??? f??tat?? s?? pa?d' ??? t', ??????a ??e? d???? ?a???ta ??s??t?????

?e???? ?at' ??t?? ??t?? ???e???? p????.

Eur. And. 1250.

Voyaging northwards by the western strand Of the Euxine sea we came to where the land Sinks low in salt mora.s.s and wooded plain: Here mighty Ister pushes to the main, Forking his turbid flood in channels three To plough the sands wherewith he chokes the sea.

Against his middle arm, not many a mile In the offing of black water is the isle Named of Achilles, or as Leuke known, Which tender Thetis, counselling alone With her wise sire beneath the ocean-wave Unto her child's departed spirit gave, Where he might still his love and fame enjoy, Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy.

Thither Achilles pa.s.sed, and long fulfill'd His earthly lot, as the high G.o.ds had will'd, Far from the rivalries of men, from strife, From arms, from woman's love and toil of life.

Now of his lone abode I will unfold What there I saw, or was by others told.