The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 54

Hark! he telleth how-- 'Spring is coming now; Spring is coming now.

Now ruddy are the elm-tops against the blue sky, The pale larch donneth her jewelry; Red fir and black fir sigh, And I am lamenting the year gone by.

The bushes where I nested are all cut down, They are felling the tall trees one by one, And my mate is dead and gone, In the winter she died and left me lone.

She lay in the thicket where I fear to go; For when the March-winds after the snow The leaves away did blow, She was not there, and my heart is woe:

And sad is my song, when I begin to sing, As I sit in the suns.h.i.+ne this merry spring: Like a withered leaf I cling To the white oak-bough, while the wood doth ring.

Spring is coming now, the sun again is gay; Each day like a last spring's happy day.'-- Thus sang he; then from his spray He saw me listening and flew away.

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I never shall love the snow again Since Maurice died: With corniced drift it blocked the lane And sheeted in a desolate plain The country side.

The trees with silvery rime bedight Their branches bare.

By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air.

We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found.

The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead.

We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow.

Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come.

We said, In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home.

They brought him home; 'twas two days late For Christmas day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay.

And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low.

The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow.

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NIGHTINGALES

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

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A song of my heart, as the sun peered o'er the sea, Was born at morning to me: And out of my treasure-house it chose A melody, that arose

Of all fair sounds that I love, remembered together In one; and I knew not whether From waves of rustling wheat it was, Recoveringly that pa.s.s:

Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime: Or a descant in pairing time Of warbling birds: or watery bells Of rivulets in the hills:

Or whether on blazing downs a high lark's hymn Alone in the azure dim: Or a sough of pines, when the midnight wold Is solitary and cold:

Or a lapping river-ripple all day chiding The bow of my wherry gliding Down Thames, between his flowery sh.o.r.es Re-echoing to the oars:

Or anthem notes, wherever in arched quires The unheeded music twires, And, centuries by, to the stony shade Flies following and to fade:

Or a homely prattle of children's voices gay 'Mong garden joys at play: Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks: Or memory of my books,

Which hold the words that poets in many a tongue To the irksome world have sung: Or the voice, my happy lover, of thee Now separated from me.

A ruby of fire in the burning sleep of my brain Long hid my thought had lain, Forgotten dreams of a thousand days Ingathering to its rays,

The light of life in darkness tempering long; Till now a perfect song, A jewel of jewels it leapt above To the coronal of my love.

14

FOUNDER'S DAY. A SECULAR ODE ON THE NINTH JUBILEE OF ETON COLLEGE

Christ and his Mother, heavenly maid, Mary, in whose fair name was laid Eton's corner, bless our youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth!

O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June, By silver Thames's lulling tune, In shade of willow or oak, who try The golden gates of poesy;

Or on the tabled sward all day Match your strength in England's play, Scholars of Henry, giving grace To toil and force in game or race;

Exceed the prayer and keep the fame Of him, the sorrowful king, who came Here in his realm a realm to found, Where he might stand for ever crowned.

Or whether with naked bodies flas.h.i.+ng Ye plunge in the las.h.i.+ng weir; or das.h.i.+ng The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain Round the rushes and home again;--

Or what pursuit soe'er it be That makes your mingled presence free, When by the schoolgate 'neath the limes Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes; May Peace, that conquereth sin and death, Temper for you her sword of faith; Crown with honour the loving eyes, And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise.

Here is eternal spring: for you The very stars of heaven are new; And aged Fame again is born, Fresh as a peeping flower of morn.

For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll, Mozart shall steal your ravished soul, Homer his bardic hymn rehea.r.s.e, Virgil recite his maiden verse.

Now learn, love, have, do, be the best; Each in one thing excel the rest: Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven-- To him that hath shall more be given.

Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep, So many hours till study tire, So many hours for heart's desire.

These suns and moons shall memory save, Mirrors bright for her magic cave; Wherein may steadfast eyes behold A self that groweth never old.

O in such prime enjoy your lot, And when ye leave regret it not; With wis.h.i.+ng gifts in festal state Pa.s.s ye the angel-sworded gate.

Then to the world let s.h.i.+ne your light, Children in play be lions in fight, And match with red immortal deeds The victory that made ring the meads:

Or by firm wisdom save your land From giddy head and grasping hand: IMPROVE THE BEST; so shall your sons Better what ye have bettered once.