The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 67

A.

This only, that in weeding out my shelves, In fatherly regard for babes upgrown, Until they learn to garden for themselves, Much as I like to keep my sets entire, When I came out to you I had just thrown Three of his precious works behind the fire.

14

TO ROBERT BURNS

AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT

1

Thou art a poet, Robbie Burns, Master of words and witty turns, Of lilting songs and merry yarns, Drinking and kissing: There's much in all thy small concerns, But more that's missing.

2

The wisdom of thy common sense, Thy honest hate of vain pretence, Thy love and wide benevolence Full often lead thee Where feeling is its own defence; Yet while I read thee,

3

It seems but chance that all our race Trod not the path of thy disgrace, And, living freely to embrace The moment's pleasure, s.n.a.t.c.h'd not a kiss of Nature's face For all her treasure.

4

The feelings soft, the spirits gay Entice on such a flowery way, And sovran youth in high heyday Hath such a fashion To glorify the bragging sway Of sensual pa.s.sion.

5

But rakel Chance and Fortune blind Had not the power:--Eternal Mind Led man upon a way design'd, By strait selection Of pleasurable ways, to find Severe perfection.

6

For Nature did not idly spend Pleasure: she ruled it should attend On every act that doth amend Our life's condition: 'Tis therefore not well-being's end, But its fruition.

7

Beasts that inherited delight In what promoted health or might, Survived their cousins in the fight: If some--like Adam-- Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right, The devil had 'em.

8

So when man's Reason took the reins, She found that she was saved her pains; She had but to approve the gains Of agelong inscience, And spin it fresh into her brains As moral conscience.

9

But Instinct in the beasts that live Is of three kinds; (Nature did give To man three shakings in her sieve)-- The first is Racial, The second Self-preservative, The third is Social.

10

Without the first no race could be, So 'tis the strongest of the three; Nay, of such forceful tyranny 'Tis hard to attune it, Because 'twas never made to agree To serve the unit:

11

Art will not picture it, its name In common talk is utter shame: And yet hath Reason learn'd to tame Its conflagration Into a sacramental flame Of consecration.

12

Those hundred thousand years, ah me!

Of budding soul! What slow degree, With aim so dim, so true! We see, Now that we know them, Our humble cave-folk ancestry, How much we owe them:

13

While with the savage beasts around They fought at odds, yet underground Their miserable life was sound; Their loves and quarrels Did well th' ideal bases found Of art and morals:

14

One prime distinction, Good and Ill, Was all their notion, all their skill;-- But Unity stands next to Nil;-- Want of a.n.a.lysis Saved them from doubts that wreck the Will With pale paralysis.

15

In vain philosophers dispute 'Is Good or Pleasure our pursuit?'-- The fruit likes man, not man the fruit; The good that likes him, The good man's pleasure 'tis to do 't; That's how it strikes him.

16

Tho' Science hide beneath her feet The point where moral reasonings meet, The vicious circle is complete; There is no lodgement Save Aristotle's own retreat, The just man's judgement.

17

And if thou wert not that just man, Wild Robin, born to crown his plan, We shall not for that matter ban Thy petty treason, Nor closely thy defection scan From highest Reason.

18

Thou might'st have lived like Robin Hood Waylaying Abbots in the wood, Doing whate'er thee-seemed good, The law defying, And 'mong the people's heroes stood Living and dying:

19

Yet better bow than his thou bendest, And well the poor man thou befriendest, And oftentime an ill amendest; When, if truth touch thee, Sharply the arrow home thou sendest; There's none can match thee.

20

So pity it is thou knew'st the teen Of sad remorse: the Might-have-been Shall not o'ercloud thy merry scene With vain repentance, Nor forfeit from thy spirit keen My friendly sentence.

15

THE PORTRAIT OF A GRANDFATHER

With mild eyes agaze, and lips ready to speak, Whereon the yearning of love, the warning of wisdom plays, One portrait ever charms me and teaches me when I seek: It is of him whom I, remembering my young days, Imagine fathering my father; when he, in sonship afore, Liv'd honouring and obeying the eyes now pictur'd agaze, The lips ready to speak, that promise but speak no more.

O high parental claim, that were not but for the knowing, O fateful bond of duty, O more than body that bore, The smile that guides me to right, the gaze that follows my going, How had I stray'd without thee! and yet how few will seek The spirit-hands, that heaven, in tender-free bestowing, Holds to her children, to guide the wandering and aid the weak.