THE POET LAUREATE.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 134, 8 June 1929, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE POET LAUREATE.

DR. ROBERT BRIDGES, O.M.

HIS LYRICAL POEMS.

,(By R. M. CLELAND.)

The birthday honours place Dr. Robert Bridges, together with Mr. John Galsworthy, in the very select company of the "Order of Merit. It is the most exclusive order in the world; nothing but merit, and great merit, admits man or woman. Meredith and Hardy -v*»Te aiiemhers ; and ?o was Sir on:.. Tnnelyon. thV biographer of ... .-unij.y. Sir -lames Biirrie bus -been admitted, aivrl -m hn> Sir Inum* Frazer, author '.if 'Hie Golden Bough." That clever young writer, Beverly Nichols, tells us in his book, "Twenty-Five,",-which is a collection of wellwritten and witty studies of various literary and political figures of to-day, that a veritable nest of writers and poets settled after the war at Oxford. Among those that had achieved fame was a poet whose tall,, spare figure is easily recognised in the streets of that historic town. If one happens to ' see him there, he will have an untidy i satchel of books strapped to his back, and his clothes will be ill-fitting the bowed and lank form, .which is none other th?.n that of,.Robert Bridges, England's Poet Laureate.

Born in 1844, Bridges is now in his 85th year. He took his medical degree at Oxford, and actually practiced for a while as a doctor. In 1882 he retired to live, in the country, where, from a study of his poems, we see that he must have been a close observer of natural phenomena. His first published poems appeared in 1873, but were not publicly printed. They first saw the light at a private press at Worcester College. There it was that his beautiful sonnet sequence, "The Growth of Love," was given to the world.

In estimating Bridges as a poet, we shall merely state ' that most of the accepted poets of England to-day recognise him as their master. Davies is loud in his phrase of him, likewise Squire, Freeman and. others. The office of poet laureate, though of no monetary value, could have been better given to such a poet as Kipling or Masefield, whose outlooks on life are more national, whose appeal is to men and women of ordinary education, as" well as to the lovers and students of poetry.

Bridges is essentially a poet's poet. His work shows also fine scholarship and great refinement. Many estimates have been given of this poet's work, some of which show true discernment of its obvious merits; but there has been much that is far too depreciatory altogether. Whatever may be the final judgment of his work, we take exception to such a ridiculous estimate as this from the pen of J." A. Hammerton, who should have known better. It appears in his "Short Outline on English Literature": "There is a true charm and the daintiest of art in everything of Austin Dobson's, and if our present poet laureate, who may acquire fame from the dignified dumbness of his official muse, is an improvement on Alfred Austin, it is chiefly in the technique of verse where his cleverness is obvious. That anything of "Robert Bridges' will engage a later age, except as examples of bow rhymes are made and metres may be managed, I cannot believe'; there is an utter absence of true poetic fire." Now Austin Dobson is a lesser poet than Bridges, and Hammertoes weak "I cannot believe" is merely emitted as the result of a complete misunderstanding of an authentic poet's work.

The Defence. "There is the daintiest of art in everything of Austin Dobson's," says Hammerton. True enough, say we, but those qualities are also to be found in the laureate's . work. Instance the quaintness of: Crown Winter with green, And give him good drink To physic his spleen, Or ever he think. His mouth to the bowl, His feet to the fire; And let.him, good soul, No comfort desire.

And the charm and sweetness of: So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So, strangely sweet, it was not strange, We thought that love could never change. But I can tell —let truth be told— That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see So delicate .Us motions be. If we were to assert that Bridges' lyrice are highly impassioned poetry, we would merely be baring our breast to the darts of criticism after the same manner as our friend Hammerton when, he says that Bridges' muse has an "utter lack of true poem fire." Although much of the merit of his verse lies in its limpid beauty, its delicate eweetnees, its unmatched rhythm, its technical excellence, and the. truth, with which the poet mirrors aspects of the English countryside, it is at times truly lyrical, and never has it a dignified dumbness. There is one fine poem, which seems to be his most lyrical piece, in which the poet seem? to rise- k> ethereal heights and beat upon the doors of heaven; it is imbued with the stuff of a mortal's sadness: O my vague desires! Te lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires; That are my soul herself in pangs sublime Rising and flying to heaven before her time. Ah! they burn my soul, • The fires devour my soul that once was whole: ' '"• She is scattered in flery phantoms day by day, But whither, whither? ay whither? Away, away. Could I but control These vague desires, these leaping flames of

the soul: Could I but quench the fire: Oh! could I My soul that flieth, alas, and dieth away!

Then we have that impassioned love lyric wherein the poet urges himself to arise and go meet his love, whom he feels ie in the same state of. expectancy as himself. . . . Awake,, my neart, to be loved, awake, awake ! The ■ darkuess silvers away, the morn doth break. ' • • It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slak* The o'ertaken moon. Awake, 0 heart, awake!'-,." . She, too; that loveth.awaketh and hopes for th6e; ' Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee. * Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: ','■>'< Awake, 0 heart, to be loved. Awake, awake! Pathos and Happiness. One of the most remarkable a-nd pleasing qualities in his verse is the happinese of many of his lyrics and the pathos and singing beauty of most of the eonnets. Not all. of the lyrics are of this blithesome nature, however, some embodying deeper themee and reflections, such as his "Pater Filio," "My Delight and Thy Delight" (an exquisite thing), "Winter Nightfall," "Nightingale," and others. Yet throughout all his verse is that almost indefinable spirit of freshness and buoyancy which lie true charm. When Bridges gazes on Nature hie reflections are boyishly happy; he becomes charmed with ; everything he sees, his heart bounds with delight; in such moodesie will write his happy lyrics. When, however, he reflects on man and his vain cravinge for happinese and fulfilment of dreams, then his spirit clouds, making him recall his own poor mortal desires:

Away, lovely Muse, roam and be free: Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done:

Tho' to win thee, I left all else unwon. Thou, whom I most have won, art not for

me. My first desire, thou to foregone must be, Thou, too, 0 much lamented now, tho' none Will turn to pity thy forsaken sun, Nor thy divine sisters weep for thee.

He will never be read for a popular poet. For the sixty years or so that he has been writing he has been content to follow the old classical tradition of English poetry. Like all careful writers, he lias produced no great body of poetry. The satisfactory amount that he has produced is so satisfactory that posterity will assign him a permanent niche in the temple of fame.