Part 1
BOOKS IN PROSE BY
ROBERT BRIDGES
(DROCH)
OVERHEARD IN ARCADY
Dialogues about Howells, James, Aldrich, Stockton, Davis, Crawford, Kipling, Meredith, Stevenson, Barrie. Illustrated, _Fourth Edition_, $1.25.
SUPPRESSED CHAPTERS, AND OTHER BOOKISHNESS
CONTENTS: Suppressed Chapters--Arcadian Letters--Novels that Everybody Read--The Literary Partition of Scotland--Friends in Arcady--Arcadian Opinions. _Third Edition_, $1.25.
Bramble Brae
Bramble Brae
By Robert Bridges (_Droch_)
New York Charles Scribner’s Sons 1902
Copyright, 1902, by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
_Published March, 1902_
THE DE VINNE PRESS
To my Father
You called the old farm Bramble Brae, And loved it till your hair was gray And footsteps faltered while you trod The sloping upland bright with sod. It blossomed in your quiet life With gowans from the Neuk of Fife; And while you walked the waving wheat You dreamed of heather and the peat. You’ve gane awa! My spirit yearns To hear you read the songs of Burns; The melody I’ve faintly caught Is just the lesson that you taught. If any hear your gentle voice In verse of mine, then I’ll rejoice And sing along my stumbling way, “He’s home again in Bramble Brae!”
CONTENTS
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
PAGE
THE UNILLUMINED VERGE 1
FROM ONE LONG DEAD 4
FATHER TO MOTHER 6
THE CHILD TO THE FATHER 8
A PRAYER OF OLD AGE 10
THE RHONE GLACIER--SUNSET 14
JAMES MCCOSH 17
LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE (_Plantin_) 18
THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD (_Translation_) 19
R. L. S. 20
MCGIFFEN 22
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE 25
NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER 27
FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA 29
BRAMBLE BRAE
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND 33
THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON 34
ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING 36
UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING 38
A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE 40
TO CHLOE 42
TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR 43
CAPRICE 44
RETROSPECT 46
IN THE CROWD 47
REMEMBRANCE 48
OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER 49
OVER THE FERRY 50
BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER 52
WITH FLOWERS
ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER 57
THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS 59
A SONG 61
WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 63
DIANA’S VALENTINE 65
WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES 67
WRITTEN IN BOOKS
IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK 71
IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS” 73
IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE” 74
IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS 75
IN “THE KING’S LYRICS” 76
THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA 77
IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING 79
FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S 80
IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE” 81
A CHRISTMAS GREETING 82
IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS” 83
IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES” 84
IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY” 85
A VALENTINE 86
IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!” 87
THE BOOK SPEAKS 88
IN HERFORD’S VERSES 89
IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS 90
IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS 91
IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE--A PLAY” 92
TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. 94
TO MY MOTHER 96
A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY 97
ENVOY 99
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
On the dark decline of the unillumined verge between the two worlds. _George Meredith._
THE UNILLUMINED VERGE
TO A FRIEND DYING
They tell you that Death’s at the turn of the road, That under the shade of a cypress you’ll find him, And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.
I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, And we’ll talk of the way we have come through the valley; Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.
You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave-- “Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! Yet it’s joyful to live, and it’s hard to be brave When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going.”
We are almost there--our last walk on this height-- I must bid you good-by at that cross on the mountain. See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!
And it shines in your face and illumines your soul; We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, While I must return to my oar and the rowing.
We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend; I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning Just over the ridge within reach of the end Of your arduous toil--the beginning of learning.
You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, “Au revoir!” and “good night!” while the twilight is creeping Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? Yes, I hear your faint voice: “This is rest, and like sleeping!”
FROM ONE LONG DEAD
What! _You_ here in the moonlight and thinking of me? Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest? But you wept when I told you I longed to be free, And you mourned for a while when they laid me at rest.
I’ve been dead all these years! and to-night in your heart There’s a stir of emotion, a vision that slips-- It’s _my_ face in the moonlight that gives you a start, It’s my name that in joy rushes up to your lips!
Yes, I’m young, oh, so young, and so little I know! A mere child that is learning to walk and to run; While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and fro I am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun.
I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise, But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife; I am humbled, and then there’s an impulse to rise, And a voice whispers, “Onward and win! This is Life!”
And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height, That inspires me and thrills me,--each day a new birth,-- Is the Force that to Chaos said, “Let there be Light!” And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on Earth.
It is Love! and you know it and feel it, my Soul! For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars. And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal, And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars!
FATHER TO MOTHER
This is our child, Dear--flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone; Here is the end of our youth, and now we begin to atone. Now we do feel what their love was--those who have reared us and taught; Now do we know of the treasures that neither are sold nor bought. Here is the joy of the Race--joy that must grow out of pain; Here is the last of our Self--now we are links in the chain. Body of yours and mine no more is the measure of grief-- All that _he_ suffers is ours--and increased while we cry for relief; Yea, for our boy, our Beloved, we’ll yearn through the beckoning years-- Toil for him, laugh with him, struggle, and pour out the fountain of tears!
THE CHILD TO THE FATHER
Father, it’s your love that safely guides me, Always it’s around me, night and day; It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me: Yet, father, there’s a shadow in my way.
All the day, my father, I am playing Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart-- But often just at night when I am praying I feel this awful hunger in my heart.
Father, there is something--it has missed me; I’ve felt it through my little days and years; And even when you petted me and kissed me I’ve cried myself to sleep with burning tears.
To-day I saw a child and mother walking; I caught a gentle shining in her eye, And music in her voice when she was talking-- Oh, father, is it _that_ that makes me cry?
Oh, never can I put my arms around her, Or never cuddle closer in the night; Mother, oh, my mother! I’ve not found her-- I look for her and cry from dark to light!
A PRAYER OF OLD AGE
O Lord, I am so used to all the byways Throughout Thy devious world, The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highways Where saints are safely whirled! And there are crooked ways, forbidden pleasures, That lured me with their spell; But there I lingered not, and found no treasures-- Though in the mire I fell.
And now I’m old and worn, and, scarcely seeing The beauties of Thy work, I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeing Through valleys in the murk; Yet I can feel my way--my mem’ry guides me; I bear the yoke and smile. I’m used to life, and nothing wounds or chides me; Lord, let me live awhile!
And then, dear Lord, I still can feel the thrilling Of Nature in the Spring-- The uplift of Thy hills, the song-birds trilling, The lyric joy they bring. I’m not too old to see the regal beauty Of moon and stars and sun; Nature can still reveal to me my duty Till my long task is done.
O Lord, to me the pageant is entrancing-- The march of States and Kings! I keenly watch the human race advancing And see Man master Things: From him who read the secret of the thunder And made the lightning kind, Down to this marvel--all the growing wonder Of force controlled by Mind.
And this dear land of ours, the freeman’s Nation! Lord, let me live and see Fulfilment of our fathers’ aspiration, When each man’s really free! When all the strength and skill that move the mountains, And pile up riches great, Shall sweeten patriotism at its fountains And purify the State!
But there are closer ties than these that bind me And make me long to stay And linger in the dusk where Death may find me On Thine own chosen day; There’s one who walks beside me in the gloaming And holds my faltering hand-- Without her guidance I can make no homing In any distant land.
Some day when we are tired, like children playing, And wearied drop our toys-- When all the work and burden of our staying Has mingled with our joys-- With those we love around--our eyelids drooping, Too spent with toil to weep-- Like some kind nurse o’er drowsy children stooping, Lord, take us home to sleep!
THE RHONE GLACIER--SUNSET
Like the uncounted years of God it rolls From out the sky. The light of heaven shines Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths, This little world is lost. The sparkling sun Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one Who looks to heaven to find her lover’s face. Silent, serene, implacable it stands-- A mighty symbol of the Force that moved Across the surface of the youthful earth And scored the continents with valleys deep, As children write upon the yielding sand. Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs-- Countless ages back to that bleak time When frightful monsters played upon the hills-- Always the same, yet moving slowly onward, In heaven its head, its feet upon the world. The Rhone that trickles from the glacier’s edge-- Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade-- Is but the lash with which the giant plays And spins the tops that swarm with struggling men. “What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?”-- This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want, This tragic comedy we call our life!
Across the meadows as the evening falls A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb; The children hear the father’s kindly voice And run to greet and cheer his late return, While from his humble cottage gleams a light.
The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold-- The door springs open to a welcome cry, And all at last are safe within the Home.
In cold and awful majesty it stands Against the darkening sky,--Force without warmth, Strength without passion. But at the touch Of homely human ways its terrors flee And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love.
JAMES McCOSH
1811-1894
Young to the end through sympathy with youth, Gray man of learning--champion of truth! Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind, He felt his kinship with all humankind, And never feared to trace development Of high from low--assured and full content That man paid homage to the Mind above, Uplifted by the “Royal Law of Love.”
The laws of nature that he loved to trace Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face; The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls Will miss his presence, and the stately halls His trumpet-voice; while in their joys Sorrow will shadow those he called “my boys”!
LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE
(Copie d’un sonnet composé par Plantin au XVIe siècle.)
Avoir une maiſon commode, propre & belle, Un jardin tapiſſé d’eſpaliers odorans, Des fruits, d’excellent vin, peu de train, peu d’enfans, Poſſeder ſeul, ſans bruit, une femme fidéle. N’avoir dettes, amour, ni procés, ni querelle, Ni de partage à faire avecque ſes parens, Se contenter de peu, n’eſpérer rien des Grands, Régler tous ſes deſſeins sur un juſte modéle.
Vivre avecque franchiſe & ſans ambition, S’adonner ſans ſcrupule à la dévotion, Domter ſes paſſions, les rendre obéiſſantes. Conſerver l’eſprit libre, & le jugement fort, Dire ſon Chapelet en cultivant ſes entes, C’eſt attendre chez ſoi bien doucement la mort.
THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD
FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTIN
To have a home, convenient for thy life, With fragrant fruit-walls in a garden fine, Some children, some retainers, and rare wine; To live serenely with thy faithful wife; To have no debts, nor quarrels, nor legal strife, Nor separation from dear kin of thine; Expecting nothing from the Great, to shine With modest light and just, where greed is rife.
To live with freedom, yet to be devout, Ruling thy well-curbed passions--and without Ambition’s scourge to thwart thy regnant will; Truly to worship God with ardent breath Among His shrubs and trees on plain and hill-- Thus pleasantly shalt thou at home wait Death.
R. L. S.
“_Where hath fleeting Beauty led? To the doorway of the dead._” All the way you followed her Tripping through the palms and fir; All the way around you flew Splendid spirits from the blue-- Dreams and visions lightly caught In the meshes of your thought. What a glorious retinue Made that arduous chase with you! Half the world stood still to see Song and Fancy follow free At the waving of your wand-- While the echoing hills respond To your voice.
And now the race Ends with your averted face; At full effort you have sped Through that doorway of the dead-- But the hills and woods remain Peopled from your teeming brain! All that stately company Linger where their eyes may see Beauty fling the laurel o’er, At the closing of the door!
From _Suppressed Chapters_.
McGIFFEN
THE HERO COMING HOME
His body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy, and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania.
_Associated Press._
I lent him to my country, And he wore the Navy blue; I bade him do his duty, And he said he would be true.
It’s home they say you’re coming-- And it’s home you came to me When you wore your first blue jacket At the old Academy. And the neighbors said, “How handsome! What a sailor he will be!” But I only drew him closer In my coddling mother’s joy, And said, “Well, what’s a sailor? He’s my brave boy!”
And then they told the story Of his courage in the fight-- How he ruled a heathen war-ship And fought it with his might.
It’s home he wrote his mother When the smoke had cleared away: “I can _see_--so don’t you worry-- Though I’m riddled by the fray.” And the neighbors said, “How glorious! What a Hero is your son! The world is all a-talking Of the battle that he won!” I said, “Well, what’s a Hero? He’s my brave son!”
And now to me he’s coming, And he wears a Captain’s bars; It’s a foreign nation’s uniform, But wrapped in Stripes and Stars.
It’s home at last you’re coming, And it’s home at last to me. You’re a hero and immortal, And you fought to make men free. But your heart is cold within you And your dear eyes cannot see! They say, “Be strong, O mother; Proud laurels crown his head!” Alas, what’s left of glory? My boy, my boy is dead!
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE
To live a hero, then to stand In bronze serene above the city’s throng; Hero at sea, and now on land Revered by thousands as they rush along;
If these were all the gifts of fame-- To be a shade amid alert reality, And win a statue and a name-- How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square, And multitudes are swarming in the street, Children are always gathered there, Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.
And in the crisis of the game-- With boyish grit and ardor it is played-- You’ll hear some youngster call his name: “The Admiral--he never was afraid!”
And so the hero daily lives, And boys grow braver as the Man they see! The inspiration that he gives Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER
TO A CONVALESCENT
Crawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted, Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier; Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted, Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!
Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered-- Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near; All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wondered How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!
Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted-- Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier; On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn--undaunted! “Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!
FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA
(W. F. STOUTENBURGH)
His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind; No one among us but did call him friend; Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mind Together in him did with fitness blend: And now he is no more!
We blindly murmur at the bitter Fate That summoned him in other lands to roam; And when upon him Sickness wrought its hate Half round the world, it brought him almost home, To die when near our shore.
We blindly murmur--but we only know Calm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps; While we are groping in the mists below, Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps-- Forever--evermore.
BRAMBLE BRAE
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong. One time we pour out millions to be free, Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea! One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. Often we rudely break restraining bars, And confidently reach out toward the stars.
Yet under all there flows a hidden stream Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream Of Washington and Franklin, men of old Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. This is the Land we love, our heritage, Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage And full of promise--destined to be great. Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON
FROM THE TRAIN
There they are! above the green trees shining-- Old towers that top the castles of our dreams, Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining-- A painted glory on the window gleams.
But, oh, the messages to travellers weary They signal through the ether in the dark! The years are long, the path is steep and dreary, But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood--hark!
The note is faint--but ghosts are gayly trooping From ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees. Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping-- Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!
They’re gone in dusk,--the towers and dreams are faded,-- But something lingers of eternal Youth; We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded; We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING
TOLD BY A GUIDE--1899[1]
Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trail From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road, And wagons from Cooke City and the mail Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?