Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 1

Part 9

Chapter 94,060 wordsPublic domain

‘O Psyche,’ thus, and kissing her he cried, ‘O simple-hearted Psyche, once again Hast thou thy foolish longing gratified, A second time hath prying been thy bane. But lo! I, love, am come, for I am thine: Nor ever more shall any fate malign, Or spite of goddess smite our love in twain.

‘Let now that I have saved thee twice outweigh 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 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?