The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas - Bridges Robert

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fly for life: they pant, they scream.

       Ar. Were they not mortal, sweet, I coud not kill them.

       They kill each other in their lust for life; 151

       Nay, cruelly persecute their blemisht kin:

       And they that thus are exiled from the herd

       Slink heart-brok'n to sepulchral solitudes,

       Defenceless and dishonour'd; there to fall

       Prey to the hungry glutton of the cave,

       Or stand in mute pain lingering, till they drop

       In their last lair upon the ancestral bones.

       Per. What is it that offends me?

       Ath. 'Tis Pity, child,

       The mortal thought that clouds the brow of man 160

       With dark reserve, or poisoning all delite

       Drives him upon his knees in tearful prayer

       To avert his momentary qualms: till Zeus

       At his reiterated plaint grows wrath,

       And burdens with fresh curse the curse of care.

       And they that haunt with men are apt to take

       Infection of his mind: thy mighty mother

       Leans to his tenderness.

       Per. How should man, dwelling

       On earth that is so gay, himself be sad?

       Is not earth gay? Look on the sea, the sky, 170

       The flowers!

       Ath. 'Tis sad to him because 'tis gay.—

       For whether he consider how the flowers,

      —Thy miracles of beauty above praise—

       Are wither'd in the moment of their glory,

       So that of all the mounting summer's wealth

       The show is chang'd each day, and each day dies,{57}

       Of no more count in Nature's estimate

       Than crowded bubbles of the fighting foam:

       Or whether 'tis the sea, whose azure waves

       Play'd in the same infinity of motion 180

       Ages ere he beheld it, and will play

       For ages after him;—alike 'tis sad

       To read how beauty dies and he must die.

       Per. Were I a man, I would not worship thee,

       Thou cold essential wisdom. If, as thou say'st,

       Thought makes men sorrowful, why help his thought

       To quench enjoyment, who might else as I

       Revel among bright things, and feast his sense

       With beauty well-discern'd? Nay, why came ye

       To share my pastime? Ye love not the flowers. 190

       Ath. Indeed I love thee, child; and love thy flowers—

       Nor less for loving wisely. All emotions,

       Whether of gods or men, all loves and passions,

       Are of two kinds; they are either inform'd by wisdom,

       To reason obedient—or they are unconducted,

       Flames of the burning life. The brutes of earth

       And Pan their master know these last; the first

       Are seen in me: betwixt the extremes there lie

       Innumerable alloys and all of evil.

       Per. Nay, and I guess your purpose with me well: 200

       I am a child, and ye would nurse me up

       A pupil in your school. I know ye twain

       Of all the immortals are at one in this;

       Ye wage of cold disdain a bitter feud

       With Aphrodite, and ye fear for me,

       Lest she should draw me to her wanton way.

       Fear not: my party is taken. Hark! I'll tell

       What I have chosen, what mankind shall hold

       Devote and consecrate to me on earth:

       It is the flowers: but only among the flowers 210

       Those that men love for beauty, scent, or hue,

       Having no other uses: I have found{58}

       Demeter, my good mother, heeds them not.—

       She loves vines, olives, orchards, 'the rich leas

       Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas,[1]

       But for the idle flowers she hath little care:

       She will resign them willingly. And think not,

       Thou wise Athena, I shall go unhonour'd,

       Or rank a meaner goddess unto man.

       His spirit setteth beauty before wisdom, 220

       Pleasures above necessities, and thus

       He ever adoreth flowers. Nor this I guess

       Where rich men only and superfluous kings

       Around their palaces reform the land

       To terraces and level lawns, whereon

       Appointed slaves are told, to tend and feed

       Lilies and roses and all rarest plants

       Fetch'd from all lands; that they—these lordly men—

       'Twixt flaunting avenues and wafted odours

       May pace in indolence: this is their bliss; 230

       This first they do: and after, it may be,

       Within their garden set their academe:—

       But in the poorest villages, around

       The meanest cottage, where no other solace

       Comforts the eye, some simple gaiety

       Of flowers in tended garden is seen; some pinks,

       Tulips, or crocuses that edge the path;

       Where oft at eve the grateful labourer

       Sits in his jasmin'd porch, and takes the sun:

       And even the children, that half-naked go, 240

       Have posies in their hands, and of themselves

       Will choose a queen in whom to honour Spring,

       Dancing before her garlanded with may.

       The cowslip makes them truant, they forget

       The hour of hunger and their homely feast

       So they may cull the delicate primrose,

       Sealing their birthright with the touch of beauty;

       With unconsider'd hecatombs assuring{59}

       Their dim sense of immortal mystery.—

       Yea, rich and poor, from cradle unto grave 250

       All men shall love me, shall adore my name,

       And heap my everlasting shrine with flowers.

       Ath. Thou sayest rightly thou art a child. May Zeus

       Give thee a better province than thy thought.

      [Music heard.

      Ar. Listen! The nymphs are dancing. Let us go!

      [They move off.

      Come, Cora; wilt thou learn a hunting dance?

       I'll teach thee.

       Per. Can I learn thy hunter-step

      

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