Poetical Works of Robert Bridges excluding the eight dramas

From a friend's house had I gone forth,
And wandering at will
O'er a wide country West and North
Without or vale or hill,
I came beneath the broken edge
Of higher sloping ground,
Where an old Giant from the ledge
O'erlook'd the landscape round:

A towering Elm that stood alone,
Last of an ancient rank,
And had great barky roots out-thrown
To buttress up the bank;
His rough trunk of two hundred years
In girth a pillar gave
As massive as the Norman piers
That rise in Durham's nave;

But this for stony roof and wall
Upliving timber held,
Where never in its forest tall
Had woodman lopp'd or fell'd:
Above its crown no wind so fierce
Had warp'd the shapely green,
And scarce with bated breath might pierce
Its caves of leafy screen.

It seem'd in that dark foliage laid
Suspended thought must dwell;
As in those boughs that overshade
The river-sides of Hell,
That fabled Elm of Acheron,
Within the gates of death,

538

Which once Æneas look'd upon—
As Virgil witnesseth—
Whose leafage the last refuge was
And haven of mortal dreams,
That clustering clung thereto because
They might not pass the streams.

Now suddenly was I aware
That on the grassy shelf
A spirit was waiting for me there,
A coy seraphic elf—
My other half-self, whom I miss
In life's familiar moods,
And ken of only by his kiss
In sacred solitudes;
And for that rare embrace have borne
With Fate and things distraught,
The wanhope of my days forlorn,
My sins, have counted nought.

He is of such immortal kind,
His inwit is so clean,
So conscient with the eternal Mind—
The self of things unseen,
That when within his world I win,
Nor suffer mortal change,
I am of such immortal kin
No dream is half so strange.

Alas, I have done myself great wrong
Truckling to human care,
Am shamed to ken myself so strong
And nobler than I dare:
And yet so seldom doth he grant
The comfort of his grace,
So fickle is he and inconstant
To any time or place,

539

That since he chose that place and time
To come again to me,
I'd hold him fast by magic rhyme
Forever to that tree:
As there in lavish self-delight,
Godlike and single-souled,
I lay until the dusk of night
Came creeping o'er the wold.

14
THE SLEEPING MANSION

As our car rustled swiftly
along the village lane,
we caught sight for a moment
of the old house again,

Which once I made my home in—
ev'n as a soul may dwell
enamouring the body
that she loveth so well:

But I long since had left it;
what fortune now befals
finds me on other meadows
by other trees and walls.

The place look'd blank and empty,
a sleeper's witless face
which to his mind's enchantment
is numb, and gives no trace.

And to that slumbering mansion
was I come as a dream,
to cheer her in her stupor
and loneliness extreme.

540

I knew what sudden wonder
I brought her in my flight;
what rapturous joy possess'd her,
what peace and soft delight.

15
VISION

How should I be to Love unjust
Since Love hath been so kind to me?
O how forget thy tender trust
Or slight the bond that set me free?
How should thy spirit's blithe embrace,
Thy loyalty, have been given in vain,
From the first beckoning of thy grace
That made a child of me again,
And since hath still my manhood led
Through scathe and trouble hour by hour,
And in probation perfected
The explicit fruit of such a flower?

Not ev'n the Apostles, in the days
They walked with Christ, lov'd him so well
As we may now, who ken his praise
Reading the story that they tell,
Writ by them when their vision grew
And he, who fled and thrice denied
Christ to his face, was proven true
And gladly for His memory died:
So strong the Vision, there was none
O'er whom the Fisher's net was cast,
Ev'n of the fearfullest not one
Who would have left Him at the last.

So 'tis with me; the time hath clear'd
Not dull'd my loving: I can see

541

Love's passing ecstasies endear'd
In aspects of eternity:
I am like a miser—I can say
That having hoarded all my gold
I must grow richer every day
And die possess'd of wealth untold.

16
LOW BAROMETER

The south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.

On such a night, when Air has loosed
Its guardian grasp on blood and brain,
Old terrors then of god or ghost
Creep from their caves to life again;

And Reason kens he herits in
A haunted house. Tenants unknown
Assert their squalid lease of sin
With earlier title than his own.

Unbodied presences, the pack'd
Pollution and remorse of Time,
Slipp'd from oblivion reënact
The horrors of unhouseld crime.

Some men would quell the thing with prayer
Whose sightless footsteps pad the floor,
Whose fearful trespass mounts the stair
Or bursts the lock'd forbidden door.

542

Some have seen corpses long interr'd
Escape from hallowing control,
Pale charnel forms—nay ev'n have heard
The shrilling of a troubled soul,

That wanders till the dawn hath cross'd
The dolorous dark, or Earth hath wound
Closer her storm-spredd cloke, and thrust
The baleful phantoms underground

17
A DREAM

I had come in front of a building and knew
I should enter: the gates were barr'd,
but a postern was open, and I push'd through
and stood in a wide courtyard.

'Twas built, as colleges are, four-square,
though arch and colonnade
all here were of wood and out of repair,
timeworn but undecay'd.

Great carven portals in Gothic style,
when building could save man's soul:
doors worthy to face a cathedral aisle,
or where men-at-arms patrol.

But whether 'twere some old abbey of monks
with cloister, chapel and cell,
or a farmstead with pens and stalls and bunks
for cattle, I could not tell.

There neither were cattle nor men about,
no cock nor clock gave steven;
and I in my dream had never a doubt
'twas the entry-court of heaven.

543

An old man then appear'd from a door
and silently moved around;
his beard was grisled and thick, and he wore
a cassock that reach'd the ground;

Stately his figure and lofty his mien,
solemn and slow his tread:
'twas Peter the Saint; I had often seen
in pictures his noble head,

Which truly in Guido's painting is shown
sadden'd and full of force,
as unconvinced he sits on a stone
suffering Paul's discourse.

Like any night-watchman he walked along
peering about on his rounds,
attentive to see that nothing is wrong,
no smoke nor thief within bounds;

Or like a merchant who checks his stores,
sorting his trusty keys,
he unlock'd and anon relock'd the doors,
visiting now those, now these.

Quiet I stood sans hope or fear,
nor moved to catch his eye,
nor felt annoy'd when he came quite near
and pass'd me unnoticed by:

I knew he must know I was there; the scheme
of eternity gave us time;
so I took whatever might hap in my dream
as easy as now in my rhyme.

When, as to a prodigal son, from afar
he approach'd—he had been remiss
through kindness—he said ‘I know who you are:
you won't get further than this:

544

‘You needn't be bash'd nor mortified,
nor fancy you're laid on the shelf:
things ain't as they used to be inside;
I don't go in much myself.’

Then passing away he turn'd again,
as if to relieve his mind,
and spoke—if partly he wished to explain,
I'm sure he will'd to be kind:—

He look'd full glum—it may be a sin
to repeat his words, as I know it's
bad taste—but he said—(He'll square me the sin):
‘Why! what d'you think? We've just took in
a batch of those French poets.’

18
TO HIS EXCELLENCY

One of all our brave commanders,
Near of kin and dear my friend,
Led his men in France and Flanders
From the first brush to the end:

Peril lov'd he, and undaunted
Sought it out, and thanked his stars
That to him a place was granted
In the worst of all the wars.

He brought Uhlans in from Soignies,
Where the first blood was let out—
With his remnant from Andregnies
Saved St. Quentin's desperate rout.

545

Stiffly fought he through the onset
Undishearten'd by defeat;
Held the rear from dawn to sunset
Through the long days of retreat.

Times were, to retake the trenches
He dismounted his dragoons,
Suck'd his share of gas and stenches
With lieutenants of platoons.

Hit by howitzers and snipers
He in his five years campaign
Rode the land from Reims to Wipers,
On the Marne and on the Aisne.

Many deeds would be to blazon,
Many fights, to tell them all;
Niewport, Witchet, Contalmaison,
La Boiselle and Passendaal.

Nothing in his clean vocation
Vex'd his soul or came amiss,
From the hurried embarcation
To the fateful armistice:

But when terms of truce were bruited,
Then his cheery countenance fell
In confession undisputed
That things were not going well:

‘Nay (he said), my hope was larger;
'Twas not thus I look'd to win:
I had vow'd to rein my charger
In the streets of proud Berlin.’

546

19
Spoken by Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson at the opening of the Theatre of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art by H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, May 27, 1921.

England will keep her dearest jewel bright,
And see her sons like to their sires renown'd;
Whose Shakespeare is with deathless Homer crown'd,
Her freedom the world's hope throned in the height.
All gifts of spirit are of such airy flight
That if their fire be spent they fall to ground;
Their virtue must with newborn life abound,
And by young birth renew their old birthright.

We workers therefore in this troublous age
Would keep our beauty of language from misfeature,
Presenting manners noble, and mirth unblamed:
So Truth shall walk majestic on our stage,
And when we hold the mirror up to Nature,
She, seeing her face therein, shall not be ashamed.

20
HODGE

After reading Maurice Hewlett's ‘Song of the Plow’

Countryman Hodge has gone to fight;
The girls must help to raise the grain,
Must fag in the workshops day and night,
Till Hodge come back to his home again.

547

His life was ever a life of toil
In snow and frost, in drought or rain;
But he is heir and son of the soil
And Hodge shall come to his own again.

The Norman oppressed him long ago,
But nought reck'd he of pity or pain,
He stuck to his work and lay full low
Till he should come to his own again.

Then Commerce swelled and drove him down;
Little he got from all her gain;
His boys went off and made the town,
But Hodge shall come to his own again.

He has waited long and foughten well
That Peace should smile and Plenty reign;
And now, as bygone riddlers tell,
Hodge shall come to his own again.

‘The day when folk shall fly in the air
And skim like birds above the plain,
Then shall the plowman have his share
And Hodge will come to his own again.’

1917.

21 [Sorrow and joy, two sisters coy]

Sorrow and joy, two sisters coy,
Aye for our hearts are fighting:
The half our years are teen and tears,
And half are mere delighting.

548

So when joy's cup is brimm'd full up,
Take no thought o' the morrow:
So fine's your bliss, ye shall not miss
To have your turn wi' sorrow.

And she with ruth will teach you truth,
She is man's very med'cin:
She'll drive us straight to heav'n's high gate,
Ay, she can stuff our heads in.

Blush not nor blench with either wench,
Make neither brag nor pother:
God send you, son, enough of one
And not too much o' t'other.

22
SIMPKIN

They tell me Simpkin is a saint
I've often wish'd he wasn't,
If 'tis a note of that complaint
To look so d---d unpleasant.

The world's no doubt a sorry place
For Simpkin; and, by Jabez,
The merest glimpsing of his face
Will wring and writhe a baby's.

A lout he is, a kill-joy loon
Where wit and mirth forgather;
In company I'd just as soon
Sit by an old bell-wether.

549

But Simpkin, I have heard men state,
Is kindly and well-meaning;
'Tis that his goodness is so great
It takes so much o' screening.

I would the fiend, that made his skin
So yellow dry and scurvy,
Had turn'd the creature outside-in
Or set him topsy-turvy.

And yet since nothing's made in vain,
And we must judge our brother
Unfitted for this world, 'tis plain
He's fitted for another;

Where angels glorious to behold
Shall come, as he supposes,
To lead him through the streets o' gold
And crown his head with roses.

And if to Simpkin it befal
Just as he thinks, so be it!
I would not grudge the man at all,
But should not press to see it.

University of Virginia Library

3. PART THREE OLD STYLES

10 BUCH DER LIEDER

11 EMILY BRONTË

12 THE TRAMPS

13 THE GREAT ELM

14 THE SLEEPING MANSION

15 VISION

16 LOW BAROMETER

17 A DREAM

18 TO HIS EXCELLENCY

19 Spoken by Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson at the opening of the Theatre of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art by H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, May 27, 1921.

20 HODGE

After reading Maurice Hewlett's ‘Song of the Plow’

21

[Sorrow and joy, two sisters coy]

22 SIMPKIN

3. PART THREE
OLD STYLES

10
BUCH DER LIEDER

11
EMILY BRONTË

12
THE TRAMPS

13
THE GREAT ELM