‘Let now that I have saved thee twice outweigh_Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 1

The once that I deserted thee: and thou

Hast much obey’d for once to disobey,

And wilt no more my bidding disallow.

Take up thy pyx; to Aphrodite go,

And claim the promise of thy mighty foe;

Maybe that she will grant it to thee now.

‘If she should yet refuse, despair not yet!’

Then Psyche, when she felt his arms restore

Their old embrace, and as their bodies met,

Knew the great joy that grief is pardon’d for;

And how it doth first ecstasy excel,

When love well-known, long-lost, and mournèd well

In long days of no hope, comes home once more.

But Eros leaping up with purpose keen

Into the air, as only love can fly,

Bore her to heaven, and setting her unseen

At Aphrodite’s golden gate,--whereby

They came as night was close on twilight dim,—

There left, and bidding her say nought of him,

Went onward to the house of Zeus most high.

Where winning audience of the heavenly sire,

Who well disposed to him was used to be,

He told the story of his strong desire;

And boldly begg’d that Zeus would grant his plea,

That he might have sweet Psyche for his wife,

And she be dower’d with immortal life,

Since she was worthy, by his firm decree.

And great Zeus smiled; and at the smile of Zeus

All heaven was glad, and on the earth below

Was calm and peace awhile and sorrow’s truce:

The sun shone forth and smote the winter snow,

The flowërs sprang, the birds gan sing and pair,

And mortals, as they drew the brighten’d air,

Marvel’d, and quite forgot their common woe.

Yet gave the Thunderer not his full consent

Without some words: ‘At length is come the day,’

Thus spake he, ‘when for all thy youth misspent,

Thy mischief-making and thy wanton play

Thou art upgrown to taste the sweet and sour:

Good shall it work upon thee: from this hour

Look we for better things. And this I say,

‘That since thy birth, which all we took for bliss,

Thou hast but mock’d us; and no less on me

Hast brought disfavour and contempt, ywiss,

Than others that have had to do with thee:

Till only such as vow’d themselves aloof

From thee and thine were held in good aproof;

And few there were, who thus of shame went free.

‘That punishment is shapen as reward

Is like thy fortune: but our good estate

We honour, while we sit to be adored:

And thus ’twas written in the book of Fate.

Not for thy pleasure, but the general weal

Grant I the grace for which thou here dost kneel;

And that which I determine shall not wait.’

So wingèd Hermes through the heaven he sped,

To warn the high celestials to his hall,

Where they should Psyche see with Eros wed,

And keep the day with feast ambrosial.

And Hermes, flying through the skiey ways

Of high Olympus, spread sweet Psyche’s praise,

And bade the mighty gods obey his call.

Then all the Kronian gods and goddesses

Assembl’d at his cry,--and now ’twas known

Why Zeus had smiled,--the lesser majesties

Attending them before his royal throne.

Athena, mistress good of them that know,

Came, and Apollo, warder off of woe,

Who had to Psyche’s sire her fate foreshown;

Demeter, giver of the golden com,

Fair Hebe, honour’d at her Attic shrine,

And Artemis with hunting spear and horn,

And Dionysos, planter of the vine,

With old Poseidon from the barren sea,

And Leto, and the lame Hephæstos, he

Himself who built those halls with skill divine.

And ruddy Pan with many a quip and quirk

Air’d ’mong those lofty gods his mirth illbred,

Bearing a mighty bowl of cretan work:

Stern Arês, with his crisp hair helmeted,

Came, and retirèd Hestia, and the god

Hermes, with wingèd cap and ribbon’d rod,

By whom the company was heralded.

And Hera sat by Zeus, and all around

The Muses, that of learning make their choice;

Who, when Apollo struck his strings to sound,

Sang in alternate music with sweet voice:

And righteous Themis, and the Graces three

Ushering the anger’d Aphrodite; she

Alone of all were there might not rejoice.

But ere they sat to feast, Zeus bade them fill

The cup ambrosial of immortal life,

And said ‘If Psyche drink,--and ’tis my will,—

There is an end of this unhappy strife.

Nor can the goddess, whose mislike had birth

From too great honour paid the bride on earth,

Forbid her any more for Eros’ wife.’

Then Aphrodite said ‘So let it be.’

And Psyche was brought in, with such a flush

Of joy upon her face, as there to see

Was fairer to love’s eye than beauty’s blush.

And then she drank the eternal wine, whose draught

Can Terror cease: which flesh hath never quafft,

Nor doth it flow from grape that mortals crush.

And next stood Eros forth, and took her hand,

And kisst her happy face before them all:

And Zeus proclaim’d them married, and outban’d

From heaven whoever should that word miscall.

And then all sat to feast, and one by one

Pledged Psyche ere they drank and cried _Well done_!

And merry laughter rang throughout the hall.

So thus was Eros unto Psyche wed,

The heavenly bridegroom to his earthly bride,

Who won his love, in simple maidenhead:

And by her love herself she glorified,

And him from wanton wildness disinclined;

Since in his love for her he came to find

A joy unknown through all Olympus wide.

And Psyche for her fall was quite forgiven,

Since ’gainst herself when tempted to rebel,

By others’ malice on her ruin driven,

Only of sweet simplicity she fell:—

Wherein who fall may fall unto the skies;—

And being foolish she was yet most wise,

And took her trials patiently and well.

And Aphrodite since her full defeat

Is kinder and less jealous than before,

And smiling on them both, calls Psyche sweet;

But thinks her son less manly than of yore:

Though still she holds his arm of some renown,

When he goes smiting mortals up and down,

Piercing their marrow with his weapons sore.

_So now in steadfast love and happy state_

They hold for aye their mansion in the sky,

And send down heavenly peace on those who mate,

In virgin love, to find their joy thereby:

Whom gently Eros shooteth, and apart

Keepeth for them from all his sheaf that dart

Which Psyche in his chamber pickt to try.

Now in that same month Psyche bare a child,

Who straight in heaven was namèd Hedonè

In mortal tongues by other letters styled;

Whom all to love, however named, agree:

Whom in our noble English JOY we call,

And honour them among us most of all,

Whose happy children are as fair as she.

_ENVOY_

IT IS MY PRAYER THAT SHE MAY SMILE ON ALL

WHO READ MY TALE AS SHE HATH SMILED ON ME.

THE GROWTH

LOVE

THE GROWTH OF LOVE

They that in play can do the thing they would,

Having an instinct throned in reason’s place,

--And every perfect action hath the grace

Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood--

These are the best: yet be there workmen good

Who lose in earnestness control of face,

Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base

Reach to their end by steps well understood.

Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains

Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,

--Even as a painter breathlessly who strains

His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--

Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,

Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

For thou art mine: and now I am ashamed

To have usèd means to win so pure acquist,

And of my trembling fear that might have misst

Thro’ very care the gold at which I aim’d;

And am as happy but to hear thee named,

As are those gentle souls by angels kisst

In pictures seen leaving their marble cist

To go before the throne of grace unblamed.

Nor surer am I water hath the skill

To quench my thirst, or that my strength is freed

In delicate ordination as I will,

Than that to be myself is all I need

For thee to be most mine: so I stand still,

And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

The whole world now is but the minister

Of thee to me: I see no other scheme

But universal love, from timeless dream

Waking to thee his joy’s interpreter.

I walk around and in the fields confer

Of love at large with tree and flower and stream,

And list the lark descant upon my theme,

Heaven’s musical accepted worshipper.

Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud

’Twixt things and me is quash’d in our new truce;

And nature now dearly with thee endued

No more in shame ponders her old excuse,

But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,

So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

The very names of things belov’d are dear,

And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,

As many a face thro’ love’s long residence

Groweth to fair instead of plain and sere:

But when I say thy name it hath no peer,

And I suppose fortune determined thence

Her dower, that such beauty’s excellence

Should have a perfect title for the ear.

Thus may I think the adopting Muses chose

Their sons by name, knowing none would be heard

Or writ so oft in all the world as those,—

Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for third

The classic Milton, and to us arose

Shelley with liquid music in the word.

The poets were good teachers, for they taught

Earth had this joy; but that ’twould ever be

That fortune should be perfected in me,

My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.

So I stood low, and now but to be caught

By any self-styled lords of the age with thee

Vexes my modesty, lest they should see

I hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought.

And when we sit alone, and as I please

I taste thy love’s full smile, and can enstate

The pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,

My thought swims like a ship, that with the weight

Of her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seas

Becalm’d, and cannot stir her golden freight.

While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry

And blackening east that so embitters March,

Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,

And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;

Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d sky

The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,

And where the covert hazels interarch

Their tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.

Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid

A million buds but stay their blossoming;

And trustful birds have built their nests amid

The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing

Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,

And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

In thee my spring of life hath bid the while

A rose unfold beyond the summer’s best,

The mystery of joy made manifest

In love’s self-answering and awakening smile;

Whereby the lips in wonder reconcile

Passion with peace, and show desire at rest,—

A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,

That bloom’d to immortalize the Tuscan style:

When first the angel-song that faith had ken’d

Fancy pourtray’d, above recorded oath

Of Israel’s God, or light of poem pen’d;

The very countenance of plighted troth

’Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blend

The hope of one and happiness of both.

For beauty being the best of all we know

Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims

Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names

Were never told can form and sense bestow;

And man hath sped his instinct to outgo

The step of science; and against her shames

Imagination stakes out heavenly claims,

Building a tower above the head of woe.

Nor is there fairer work for beauty found

Than that she win in nature her release

From all the woes that in the world abound:

Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,

If from man’s greater need beauty redound,

And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,

That late dismay’d her faithless faith forbore;

And wins again her love lost in the lore

Of schools and script of many a learned book:

For thou what ruthless death untimely took

Shalt now in better brotherhood restore,

And save my batter’d ship that far from shore

High on the dismal deep in tempest shook.

So in despite of sorrow lately learn’d

I still hold true to truth since thou art true,

Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn’d:

Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue

To my life’s need more splendid and unearn’d

Than hath thy gift outmatch’d desire and due.

Winter was not unkind because uncouth;

His prison’d time made me a closer guest,

And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,

Biting all else with keen and angry tooth:

And bravelier the triumphant blood of youth

Mantling thy cheek its happy home possest,

And sterner sport by day put strength to test,

And custom’s feast at night gave tongue to truth.

Or say hath flaunting summer a device

To match our midnight revelry, that rang

With steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?

Or when we hark’t to nightingales that sang

On dewy eves in spring, did they entice

To gentler love than winter’s icy fang?

There’s many a would-be poet at this hour,

Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo’d,

And o’er his lamplit desk in solitude

Deems that he sitteth in the Muses’ bower:

And some the flames of earthly love devour,

Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew’d

In the world’s wilderness with heavenly food

The sickly body of their perishing power.

So none of all our company, I boast,

But now would mock my penning, could they see

How down the right it maps a jagged coast;

Seeing they hold the manlier praise to be

Strong hand and will, and the heart best when most

’Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,

Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;

Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,

And beauty that my fancy fed upon?

Now not my life’s contrition for my fault

Can blot that day, nor work me recompence,

Tho’ I might worthily thy worth exalt,

Making thee long amends for short offence.

For surely nowhere, love, if not in thee

Are grace and truth and beauty to be found;

And all my praise of these can only be

A praise of thee, howe’er by thee disown’d:

While still thou must be mine tho’ far removed,

And I for one offence no more beloved.

Now since to me altho’ by thee refused

The world is left, I shall find pleasure still;

The art that most I have loved but little used

Will yield a world of fancies at my will:

And tho’ where’er thou goest it is from me,

I where I go thee in my heart must bear;

And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,

My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair.

Farewell, yet think not such farewell a change

From tenderness, tho’ once to meet or part

But on short absence so could sense derange

That tears have graced the greeting of my heart;

They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,

Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

When sometimes in an ancient house where state

From noble ancestry is handed on,

We see but desolation thro’ the gate,

And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;

Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,

Bred of disease or melancholy fate,

Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphere

To wander nameless save to pity or hate:

What is the wreck of all he hath in fief,

When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fine

Unto the sick, nor doth it burden grief

That the house perish when the soul doth pine.

Thus I my state despise, slain by a sting

So slight ’twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

Who builds a ship must first lay down the keel

Of health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:

And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bed

For decks of purity, her floor and ceil.

Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,

To fortune’s wind the sails of purpose spread:

And at the prow make figured maidenhead

O’erride the seas and answer to the wheel.

And let him deep in memory’s hold have stor’d

Water of Helicon: and let him fit

The needle that doth true with heaven accord:

Then bid her crew, love, diligence and wit

With justice, courage, temperance come aboard,

And at her helm the master reason sit.

This world is unto God a work of art,

Of which the unaccomplish’d heavenly plan

Is hid in life within the creature’s heart,

And for perfection looketh unto man.

Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slow

Pains and persistence were his idols made,

Destroy’d and made, ere ever he could know

The mighty mother must be so obey’d.

For lack of knowledge and thro’ little skill

His childish mimicry outwent his aim;

His effort shaped the genius of his will;

Till thro’ distinction and revolt he came,

True to his simple terms of good and ill,

Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt faces

In negligent and travel-stain’d array,

That in the city of Dante come to-day,

Haughtily visiting her holy places?

O these be noble men that hide their graces,

True England’s blood, her ancient glory’s stay,

By tales of fame diverted on their way

Home from the rule of oriental races.

Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyes

And motion delicate, but swift to fire

For honour, passionate where duty lies,

Most loved and loving: and they quickly tire

Of Florence, that she one day more denies

The embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

Where San Miniato’s convent from the sun

At forenoon overlooks the city of flowers

I sat, and gazing on her domes and towers

Call’d up her famous children one by one:

And three who all the rest had far outdone,

Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,

I saw, and god-like Buonarroti’s powers,

And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong’d son.

Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?

Are these heroic triumphs things of old,

And do I dead upon the living gaze?

Or rather doth the mind, that can behold

The wondrous beauty of the works and days,

Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

Rejoice, ye dead, where’er your spirits dwell,

Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;

And that your names, remember’d day and night,

Live on the lips of those that love you well.

’Tis ye that conquer’d have the powers of hell,

Each with the special grace of your delight:

Ye are the world’s creators, and thro’ might

Of everlasting love ye did excel.

Now ye are starry names, above the storm

And war of Time and nature’s endless wrong

Ye flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,

Wing’d with bright music and melodious song,—

The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-dance

In dear Imagination’s rich pleasance.

The world still goeth about to shew and hide,

Befool’d of all opinion, fond of fame:

But he that can do well taketh no pride,

And see’th his error, undisturb’d by shame:

So poor’s the best that longest life can do,

The most so little, diligently done;

So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,

So vast the joy that love from love hath won.

God’s love to win is easy, for He loveth

Desire’s fair attitude, nor strictly weighs

The broken thing, but all alike approveth

Which love hath aim’d at Him: that is heaven’s praise:

And if we look for any praise on earth,

’Tis in man’s love: all else is nothing worth.

O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic pain

And clownish merriment; whose sense could wake

Sermons in stones, and count death but an ache,

All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:

The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strain

Reveal’d anew; but thou for man didst make

Nature twice natural, only to shake

Her kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.

Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is loth

To yield to art her fair supremacy;

In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.

What shall I say? for God--whose wise decree

Confirmeth all He did by all He doth--

Doubled His whole creation making thee.

I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,

And carry purpose up to the ends of the air:

In calm and storm my sails I feather, and where

By freezing cliffs the unransom’d wreckage lies:

Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise

The silence: over plains in the moonlight bare

I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare

In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.

Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,

Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir’d

By the only joy of knowing that ye fly;

Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum’d in a word,

The alphabet of a god’s idea, and I

Who master it, I am the only bird.

O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,

That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,

Hailing in each the citadel divine

The which ye thought to have enter’d long ago;

Until at length your feeble steps and slow

Falter upon the threshold of the shrine,

And your hearts overburden’d doubt in fine

Whether it be Jerusalem or no:

Dishearten’d pilgrims, I am one of you;

For, having worshipp’d many a barren face,

I scarce now greet the goal I journey’d to:

I stand a pagan in the holy place;

Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,

And question with the God that I embrace.

Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;

Her melting air, at every breath we draw,

Floods heart with love to praise God’s gracious law:

But suddenly--so short is pleasure’s lease--

The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,

And nature’s conquer’d face is full of awe;

As now the traitrous north with icy flaw

Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb’s fleece,

And ’neath the mock sun searching everywhere

Rattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:

So that the birds are silent with despair

Within the thickets; nor their armour thin

Will gaudy flies adventure in the air,

Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

Nothing is joy without thee: I can find

No rapture in the first relays of spring,

In songs of birds, in young buds opening,

Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;

For lack of thee, who once wert throned behind

All beauty, like a strength where graces cling,—

The jewel and heart of light, which everything

Wrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.

Ah! since thou’rt fled, and I in each fair sight

The sweet occasion of my joy deplore,

Where shall I seek thee best, or whom invite

Within thy sacred temples and adore?

Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,

And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

The work is done, and from the fingers fall

The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro’:

The tasking eye that overrunneth all

Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.

Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower

Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;

Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour

The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.

And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;

To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,

True only should the swift life stand at stay:

Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.

Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;

Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

The fabled seasnake, old Leviathan,

Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine

That champ’d the oceanwrack and swash’d the brine,

Before the new and milder days of man,

Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan

Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,

Late-born of golden seed to breed a line

Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan.

Straight is her going, for upon the sun

When once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;

With tireless speed she smiteth one by one

The shuddering seas and foams along the main;

And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,

Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.

A thousand times hath in my heart’s behoof

My tongue been set his passion to impart;

A thousand times hath my too coward heart

My mouth reclosed and fix’d it to the roof;

Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,

A thousand times kept silence with such art

That words could do no more: yet on thy part

Hath silence given a thousand times reproof.

I should be bolder, seeing I commend

Love, that my dilatory purpose primes,

But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:

Nay I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,

Renew my sorrows rather than offend,

A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

I travel to thee with the sun’s first rays,

That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;

I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,

And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.

I wait upon thy coming, but always--

Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite--

Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,

And in my solitude dost mock my praise.

Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:

I see no fame in Khufu’s pyramid,

No history where loveless Nile doth roll.

--This is eternal life, which doth forbid

Mortal detraction to the exalted soul,

And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

My lady pleases me and I please her;

This know we both, and I besides know well

Wherefore I love her, and I love to tell

My love, as all my loving songs aver.

But what on her part could the passion stir,

Tho’ ’tis more difficult for love to spell,

Yet can I dare divine how this befel,

Nor will her lips deny it if I err.

She loves me first because I love her, then

Loves me for knowing why she should be loved,

And that I love to praise her, loves again.

So from her beauty both our loves are moved,

And by her beauty are sustain’d; nor when

The earth falls from the sun is this disproved.