The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 38

Within the house a frore and numbing air Has chill'd endeavour: sickly memories reign In every room, and ghosts are on the stair: And hope behind the dusty window-pane Watches the days go by, and bow'd with care Forecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

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Once I would say, before thy vision came, _My joy_, _my life_, _my love_, and with some kind Of knowledge speak, and think I knew my mind Of heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.

Whate'er their sounds be, now all mean the same, Denoting each the fair that none can find; Or if I say them, 'tis as one long blind Forgets the sights that he was used to name.

Now if men speak of love, 'tis not my love; Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their life Of praise the life that I think honour of: Nay tho' they turn from house and child and wife And self, and in the thought of heaven above Hold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

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Since then 'tis only pity looking back, Fear looking forward, and the busy mind Will in one woeful moment more upwind Than lifelong years unroll of bitter or black; What is man's privilege, his h.o.a.rding knack Of memory with foreboding so combined, Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kind The perpetuity which all things lack?

Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to have Being a continuance of what, alas, We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave; Or something so unknown that it o'erpa.s.s The thought of comfort, and the sense that gave Cannot consider it thro' any gla.s.s.

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Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and take Not now the child into thine arms, from fright Composed by drowsy tune and shaded light, Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make; Nor now the boy, who scorn'd thee for the sake Of growing knowledge or mysterious night, Tho' with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite, And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake;

No, nor the man severe, who from his best Failing, alert fled to thee, that his breath, Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest; But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth, For all my wakeful prayer sent without rest To thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

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The spirit's eager sense for sad or gay Filleth with what he will our vessel full: Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy's day But like a child at any toy will pull: If sorrow, he will weep for fancy's sake, And spoil heaven's plenty with forbidden care.

What fortune most denies we slave to take; Nor can fate load us more than we can bear.

Since pleasure with the having disappeareth, He who hath least in hand hath most at heart, While he keep hope: as he who alway feareth A grief that never comes hath yet the smart; And heavier far is our self-wrought distress, For when G.o.d sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

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The world comes not to an end: her city-hives Swarm with the tokens of a changeless trade, With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade, Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.

New homes on old are set, as lives on lives; Invention with invention overlaid: But still or tool or toy or book or blade Shaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives.

The men to-day toil as their fathers taught, With little better'd means; for works depend On works and overlap, and thought on thought: And thro' all change the smiles of hope amend The weariest face, the same love changed in nought: In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

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O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth, That in my secret book with so much care I write you, this one here and that one there, Marking the time and order of your birth?

How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth, A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare, Look ye for any welcome anywhere From any shelf or heart-home on the earth?

Should others ask you this, say then I yearn'd To write you such as once, when I was young, Finding I should have loved and thereto turn'd.

'Twere something yet to live again among The gentle youth beloved, and where I learn'd My art, be there remember'd for my song.

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Who takes the census of the living dead, Ere the day come when memory shall o'ercrowd The kingdom of their fame, and for that proud And airy people find no room nor stead?

Ere h.o.a.rding Time, that ever thrusteth back The fairest treasures of his ancient store, Better with best confound, so he may pack His greedy gatherings closer, more and more?

Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page, And purge her story of the men of hate, That they go dirgeless down to Satan's rage With all else foul, deform'd and miscreate: She hath full toil to keep the names of love Honour'd on earth, as they are bright above.

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I heard great Hector sounding war's alarms, Where thro' the listless ghosts chiding he strode, As tho' the Greeks besieged his last abode, And he his Troy's hope still, her king-at-arms.

But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charms With weary oblivion, his pa.s.sion glow'd Like the cold night-worm's candle, and only show'd Such mimic flame as neither heats nor harms.

'Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint, How rude catastrophe had dim'd his day, And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint: _To arms! to arms!_ what more the voice would say Was swallow'd in the valleys, and grew faint Upon the thin air, as he pa.s.s'd away.

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Since not the enamour'd sun with glance more fond Kisses the foliage of his sacred tree, Than doth my waking thought arise on thee, Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond; Nay, since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bond Is writ my promise of eternity; Since to such high hope thou'st encouraged me, That if thou look but from me I despond;

Since thou'rt my all in all, O think of this: Think of the dedication of my youth: Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss: Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth, My sheer annihilation if I miss: Think--if thou shouldst be false--think of thy truth.

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These meagre rhymes, which a returning mood Sometimes o'errateth, I as oft despise; And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude, See them as others with contemptuous eyes.

Nay, and I wonder less at G.o.d's respect For man, a minim jot in time and s.p.a.ce, Than at the soaring faith of His elect, That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace.

O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love, Most infinitely tender, so to touch The work that we can meanly reckon of: Surely--I say--we are favour'd overmuch.

But of this wonder, what doth most amaze Is that we know our love is held for praise.

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Beauty sat with me all the summer day, Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye; Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by, Love in her train stood ready for his prey.

She, as too proud to join herself the fray, Trusting too much to her divine ally, When she saw victory tarry, chid him--'Why Dost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?'

Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee, Told of our ancient truce: so from the fight We straight withdrew our forces, all the three.

Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flight Scheming new tactics: Love came home with me, And prompts my measured verses as I write.

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In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence, 'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon In melancholy and G.o.dlike indolence: When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime To fond pretence of immortality, Vieweth all moments from the birth of time, All things whate'er have been or yet shall be.

And like the garden, where the year is spent, The ruin of old life is full of yearning, Mingling poetic rapture of lament With flowers and suns.h.i.+ne of spring's sure returning; Only in visions of the white air wan By G.o.dlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

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