The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 46

Again shall pleasure overflow Thy cup with sweetness, thou shalt taste Nothing but sweetness, and shalt grow Half sad for sweetness run to waste.

O happy life! I hear thee sing, O rare delight of mortal stuff!

I praise my days for all they bring, Yet are they only not enough.

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MORNING HYMN

O golden Sun, whose ray My path illumineth: Light of the circling day, Whose night is birth and death:

That dost not stint the prime Of wise and strong, nor stay The changeful ordering time, That brings their sure decay:

Though thou, the central sphere, Dost seem to turn around Thy creature world, and near As father fond art found;

Thereon, as from above To s.h.i.+ne, and make rejoice With beauty, life, and love, The garden of thy choice, To dress the jocund Spring With bounteous promise gay Of hotter months, that bring The full perfected day;

To touch with richest gold The ripe fruit, ere it fall; And smile through cloud and cold On Winter's funeral.

Now with resplendent flood Gladden my waking eyes, And stir my slothful blood To joyous enterprise.

Arise, arise, as when At first G.o.d said LIGHT BE!

That He might make us men With eyes His light to see.

Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet Peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow.

Awaken, cheer, adorn, Invite, inspire, a.s.sure The joys that praise thy morn, The toil thy noons mature:

And soothe the eve of day, That darkens back to death; O golden Sun, whose ray Our path illumineth!

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I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight,-- A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour:-- My song be like a flower!

I have loved airs, that die Before their charm is writ Along a liquid sky Trembling to welcome it.

Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit's desire, Then die, and are nowhere:-- My song be like an air!

Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom: Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb!

Fly with delight, fly hence!

'Twas thine love's tender sense To feast; now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear.

BOOK III

TO

R. W. D.

1

O my vague desires!

Ye lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires: That are my soul herself in pangs sublime Rising and flying to heaven before her time:

What doth tempt you forth To drown in the south or s.h.i.+ver in the frosty north?

What seek ye or find ye in your random flying, Ever soaring aloft, soaring and dying?

Joy, the joy of flight!

They hide in the sun, they flare and dance in the night; Gone up, gone out of sight: and ever again Follow fresh tongues of fire, fresh pangs of pain.

Ah! they burn my soul, The fires, devour my soul that once was whole: She is scattered in fiery phantoms day by day, But whither, whither? ay whither? away, away!

Could I but control These vague desires, these leaping flames of the soul: Could I but quench the fire: ah! could I stay My soul that flieth, alas, and dieth away!

2

LONDON SNOW

When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hus.h.i.+ng the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, m.u.f.fling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.

All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.

Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with s...o...b..lling; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, 'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'

With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.

For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares enc.u.mber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

3

THE VOICE OF NATURE

I stand on the cliff and watch the veiled sun paling A silver field afar in the mournful sea, The scourge of the surf, and plaintive gulls sailing At ease on the gale that smites the shuddering lea: Whose smile severe and chaste June never hath stirred to vanity, nor age defaced.

In lofty thought strive, O spirit, for ever: In courage and strength pursue thine own endeavour.

Ah! if it were only for thee, thou restless ocean Of waves that follow and roar, the sweep of the tides; Wer't only for thee, impetuous wind, whose motion Precipitate all o'errides, and turns, nor abides: For you sad birds and fair, Or only for thee, bleak cliff, erect in the air; Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature.

But far away, I think, in the Thames valley, The silent river glides by flowery banks: And birds sing sweetly in branches that arch an alley Of cloistered trees, moss-grown in their ancient ranks: Where if a light air stray, 'Tis laden with hum of bees and scent of may.

Love and peace be thine, O spirit, for ever: Serve thy sweet desire: despise endeavour.

And if it were only for thee, entranced river, That scarce dost rock the lily on her airy stem, Or stir a wave to murmur, or a rush to quiver; Wer't but for the woods, and summer asleep in them: For you my bowers green, My hedges of rose and woodbine, with walks between, Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature.

4

ON A DEAD CHILD