POEMS

BY ROBERT BRIDGES
PRINTED AT THE PRIVATE PRESS OF
H. DANIEL
FELLOW OF WORCESTER COLLEGE
OXFORD
1884

THE Author of these poems is too well aware of their demerits to allow them to be republished thus without some apology. But it happens that the Printer, at whose request this selection is made, is willing to take so fair a share of the blame as to make any further explanation unnecessary.

One Hundred and fifty copies printed.
This is No. ——

CONTENTS

ELEGY

Clear and gentle stream,

Known and loved so long,

That hast heard the song

And the idle dream

Of my boyish day;

While I once again

Down thy margin stray,

In the selfsame strain

Still my voice is spent,

With my old lament,

And my idle dream,

Clear and gentle stream!

Where my old seat was

Here again I sit,

Where the long boughs knit

Over stream and graís

Thick translucent eaves:

Where back eddies play

Shipwreck with the leaves,

And the proud swans stray,

Sailing one by one

Out of stream and sun,

And the fish lie cool

In their chosen pool.

Many an afternoon

Of the summer day

Dreaming here I lay;

And I know how soon

Idly at its hour

First the deep bell hums

From the minster tower,

And then evening comes,

Creeping up the glade,

With her lengthening shade,

And the tardy boon

Of her brightening moon.

Clear and gentle stream,

Ere again I go

Where thou dost not flow,

Well does it beseem

Thee to hear again

Once my youthful song,

That familiar strain

Silent now so long:

Be as I content

With my old lament,

And my idle dream,

Clear and gentle stream!

Dear lady, when thou frownest,

And my true love despisest,

And all thy vows disownest

That sealed my venture wisest;

I think thy pride’s displeasure

Neglects a matchless treasure

Exceeding price and measure.

But when again thou smilest,

And love for love returnest,

And fear with joy beguilest,

And takest truth in earnest;

Then, though I most adore thee,

The sum of my love for thee

Seems poor, scant and unworthy.

Poor withered rose and dry,

Skeleton of a rose,

Risen to testify

To love’s sad close:

Treasured for love’s sweet sake,

That of joy past

Thou might’st again awake

Memory at last:

Yet is thy perfume sweet,

Thy petals red

Yet tell of summer heat,

And the gay bed:

Yet yet recall the glow

Of the gazing sun,

When at thy bush we two

Joined hands in one.

But, rose, thou hast not seen,

Thou hast not wept

The change that passed between

Whilst thou hast slept.

To me thou seemest yet

The dead dream’s thrall:

While I live and forget

Dream, truth and all.

Thou art more fresh than I,

Rose, sweet and red:

Salt on my pale cheeks lie

The tears I shed.

I found to-day out walking

The flower my love loves best.

What, when I stooped to pluck it,

Could dare my hand arrest?

Was it a snake lay curling

About the root’s thick crown?

Or did some hidden bramble

Tear my hand reaching down?

There was no snake uncurling,

And no thorn wounded me;

’Twas my heart checked me, sighing

She is beyond the sea.

Will Love again awake,

That lies asleep so long?

O hush! ye tongues that shake

The drowsy night with song.

It is a lady fair

Whom once he deigned to praise,

That at the door doth dare

Her sad complaint to raise.

She must be fair of face,

As bold in heart she seems,

If she would match her grace

With the delight of dreams.

Her beauty would surprise

Gazers on Autumn eves,

Who watched the broad moon rise

Upon the scattered sheaves.

O sweet must be the voice

He shall descend to hear,

Who doth in Heaven rejoice

His most enchanted ear.

The smile, that rests to play

Upon her lip, foretells

What musical array

Tricks her sweet syllables.

And yet her smiles have danced

In vain, if her discourse

Win not the soul entranced

In divine intercourse.

She will encounter all

This trial without shame,

Her eyes men Beauty call,

And Wisdom is her name.

Throw back the portals then,

Ye guards, your watch that keep,

Love will awake again

That lay so long asleep.

A PASSER BY

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,

Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,

That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,

Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,

When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,

Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest

In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country so well thou knowest,

Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:

I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,

And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,

Thy sails for awning spread, thy masts bare:

Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snowcapped, grandest

Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair

Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,

I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine

That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,

Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,

As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,

From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s line

In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

LATE SPRING EVENING

I saw the Virgin-mother clad in green,

Walking the sprinkled meadows at sundown;

While yet the moon’s cold flame was hung between

The day and night, above the dusky town:

I saw her brighter than the Western gold,

Whereto she faced in splendour to behold.

Her dress was greener than the tenderest leaf

That trembled in the sunset glare aglow:

Herself more delicate than is the brief,

Pink apple-blossom, that May showers lay low,

And more delicious than ’s the earliest streak

The blushing rose shows of her crimson cheek.

With jealous grace her idle ears to please,

A music entered, making passion fain:

Three nightingales sat singing in the trees,

And praised the Goddess for the fallen rain;

Which yet their unseen motions did arouse,

Or parting Zephyrs shook out from the boughs.

And o’er the treetops, scattered in mid air,

The exhausted clouds, laden with crimson light,

Floated, or seemed to sleep; and, highest there,

One planet broke the lingering ranks of night;

Daring day’s company, so he might spy

The Virgin-queen once with his watchful eye.

And when I saw her, then I worshipped her,

And said,—O bounteous Spring, O beauteous Spring,

Mother of all my years, thou who dost stir

My heart to adore thee and my tongue to sing,

Flower of my fruit, of my heart’s blood the fire,

Of all my satisfaction the desire!

How art thou every year more beautiful,

Younger for all the winters thou hast cast:

And I, for all my love grows, grow more dull,

Decaying with each season overpast!

In vain to teach him love must man employ thee,

The more he learns the less he can enjoy thee.

WOOING

I know not how I came,

New on my knightly journey,

To win the fairest dame

That graced my maiden tourney.

Chivalry’s lovely prize

With all men’s gaze upon her,

Why did she free her eyes

On me, to do me honour?

Ah! ne’er had I my mind

With such high hope delighted,

Had she not first inclined,

And with her eyes invited.

But never doubt I knew,

Having their glance to cheer me,

Until the day joy grew

Too great, too sure, too near me.

When hope a fear became,

And passion, grown too tender,

Now trembled at the shame

Of a despised surrender;

And where my love at first

Saw kindness in her smiling,

I read her pride, and cursed

The arts of her beguiling.

Till winning less than won,

And liker wooed than wooing,

Too late I turned undone

Away from my undoing;

And stood beside the door,

Whereto she followed, making

My hard leave-taking more

Hard by her sweet leave-taking.

Her speech would have betrayed

Her thought, had mine been colder:

Her eyes distress had made

A lesser lover bolder.

But no! Fond heart distrust,

Cried Wisdom, and consider:

Go free, since go thou must,

And so farewell I bid her.

And brisk upon my way

I smote the stroke to sever,

And should have lost that day

My life’s delight for ever;

But when I saw her start

And turn aside and tremble;—

Ah! she was true, her heart

I knew did not dissemble.

There is a hill beside the silver Thames,

Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine:

And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems

Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.

Straight trees in every place

Their thick tops interlace,

And pendant branches trail their foliage fine

Upon his watery face.

Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:

His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,