The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 64

LATER POEMS

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RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLITUDE

AN ELEGY

Ended are many days, and now but few Remain; since therefore it is happy and true That memoried joys keep ever their delight, Like steadfast stars in the blue vault of night, While hours of pain (among those heavenly spheres Like falling meteors, the martyr's tears) Dart their long trails at random, and anon, Ere we exclaim, pa.s.s, and for aye are gone; Therefore my heedy thought will oft restore The long light-hearted days that are no more, Save where in her memorial crypt they shine Spangling the silent past with joy divine.

But why in dream of this enchanted mood Should all my boyhood seem a solitude?

Good reason know I, when I wander there, In that trans.m.u.ted scene, why all is fair; The woods as when in holiday of spring Million buds burst, and flowers are blossoming; The meadows deep in gra.s.s, the fields unshorn In beauty of the mult.i.tudinous corn, Where the strait alleys hide me, wall'd between High bloomy stalks and rustling banners green; The gardens, too, in dazzling hues full-blown, With wafted scent and blazing petals strewn; The orchards reddening thro' the patient hours, While idle autumn in his mossy bowers Inviteth meditation to endear The sanctuaries of the mellowing year; And every spot wherein I loved to stray Hath borrowed radiance of eternal day; But why am I ever alone, alone?

Here in the corner of a field my throne, Now in the branching chair of some tall tree Drinking the gale in bird-like liberty; Or to the seash.o.r.e wandered in the sun To watch the fateful waves break one by one; Or if on basking downs supine I lie Bathing my spirit in blue calms of the sky; Or to the river bank am stolen by night Hearkening unto the moonlit ripple bright That warbles o'er the shallows of smooth stone; Why should my memory find me all alone, When I had such companions every day Jocund and dear? 'Twixt glimpses of their play 'Tis a vast solitude, wherein I see Only myself and what I came to be.

Yet never think, dear spirits, if now ye may Remember aught of that brief earthly day, Ere ye the mournful Stygian river crost, From our familiar home too early lost,-- O never think that I your tears forget, Or that I loved not well, or love not yet.

Nor ye who held my heart in pa.s.sion's chain,-- As kings and queens succeed in glorious reign-- When, as a man, I made you to outvie G.o.d's work, and, as a G.o.d, then set you by Among the sainted throng in holiest shrine Of mythic creed and poetry divine; True was my faith, and still your loves endure, The jewels of my fancy, bright and pure.

Nor only in fair places do I see The picture fair now it has ceased to be: For fate once led me, and myself some days Did I devote, to dull laborious ways, By soaring thought detained to tread full low,-- Yea might I say unbeauteous paths of woe And dreary abodes, had not my youthful sprite Hallow'd each nook with legends of delight.

Ah! o'er that smoky town who looketh now By winter sunset from the dark hill-brow, Under the dying trees exultantly Nursing the sting of human tragedy?

Or in that little room upstair'd so high, Where London's roofs in thickest huddle lie, Who now returns at evening to entice To his fireside the joys of Paradise?

Once sacred was that hearth, and bright the air; The flame of man's redemption flickered there, In worship of those spirits, whose deathless fames Have thrilled the stars of heaven to hear their names; They that excell'd in wisdom to create Beauty, with mortal pa.s.sion conquering fate; And, mid the sovran powers of elder time, The loveliness of music and new rhyme, The masters young that first enthralled me; Of whom if I should name, whom then but thee, Sweet Sh.e.l.ley, or the boy whose book was found Thrust in thy bosom on thy body drowned?

O mighty Muse, wooer of virgin thought, Beside thy charm all else counteth as nought; The revelation of thy smile doth make Him whom thou lovest reckless for thy sake; Earthborn of suffering, that knowest well To call thine own, and with enamouring spell Feedest the stolen powers of G.o.dlike youth On dear imagination's only truth, Building with song a temple of desire; And with the yearning music of thy quire, In nuptial sacrament of thought and sense Hallowest for toil the hours of indolence: Thou in thy melancholic beauty drest, Subduest ill to serve thy fair behest, With tragic tears, and sevenfold purified Silver of mirth; and with extremest pride, With secret doctrine and unfathomed lore Remainest yet a child for evermore, The only enchantress of the earth that art To cheer his day and staunch man's bleeding heart.

O heavenly Muse, for heavenly thee we call Who in the fire of love refinest all, Accurst is he who heark'neth not thy voice; But happy he who, numbered of thy choice, Walketh aloof from nature's clouded plan: For all G.o.d's world is but the thought of man; Wherein hast thou re-formed a world apart, The mutual mirror of his better heart.

There is no foulness, misery, nor sin, But he who loves finds his desire therein, And there with thee in lonely commerce lives: Nay, all that nature gave or fortune gives, Joys that his spirit is most jealous of, His only-embraced and best-deserving love, Who walketh in the noon of heavenly praise, The troubled G.o.dhead of his children's gaze, Wear thine eternity, and are loved best By thee transfigured and in thee possest; Who madest beauty, and from thy boundless store Of beauty shalt create for evermore.

1900.

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Gay Marigold is frolic, She laughs till summer is done; She hears the Grillie chirping All day i' the blazing sun.

But when the pale moon rises, She fain her face would hide; For the high Queen of sorrows Disdains her empty pride.

Fair Primrose haunts the shadow With children of the Spring, Till in the bloomy woodland The nightingale will sing.

And when he lauds the May-night And spirits throng the grove, The moon shines thro' the branches And floods her heart with love.

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MATRES DOLOROSAE

Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones, Of lion-hearted, loving sons, Fal'n, the flower of English youth, To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth:--

O what a delicate sacrifice!

Unequal the stake and costly the price As when the queen of Love deplor'd Her darling by the wild-beast gor'd.

They rode to war as if to the hunt, But ye at home, ye bore the brunt, Bore the siege of torturing fears, Fed your hope on the bread of tears.

Proud and spotless warriors they With love or sword to lead the way; For ye had cradled heart and hand, The commander hearken'd to your command.

Ah, weeping mothers, now all is o'er, Ye know your honour and mourn no more: Nor ask ye a name in England's story, Who gave your dearest for her glory.

_May 20, 1902._

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A VIGNETTE

Among the meadows lightly going, With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing,

Far from town and toil of living, To a holy day my spirit giving,...

Thou tender flower, I kneel beside thee Wondering why G.o.d so beautified thee.--

An answering thought within me springeth, A bloom of the mind her vision bringeth.

Between the dim hill's distant azure And flowery foreground of sparkling pleasure

I see the company of figures sainted, For whom the picture of earth was painted.

Those robed seers who made man's story The crown of Nature, Her cause his glory.

They walk in the city which they have builded, The city of G.o.d from evil shielded:

To them for canopy the vault of heaven, The flowery earth for carpet is given;

Whereon I wander not unknowing, With worship and joy my heart o'erflowing.

1901.

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MILLICENT

Thou dimpled Millicent, of merry guesses, Strong-limb'd and tall, tossing thy wayward tresses, What mystery of the heart can so surprise The mirth and music of thy br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes?

Pale-brow, thou knowest not and diest to learn The mortal secret that doth in thee burn; With look imploring 'If you love me, tell, What is it in me that you love so well?'