THE POET LAUREATE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 15826, 26 July 1913, Page 14

THE POET LAUREATE.

SAMPLES OP HIS SINGING.

By Constakt Reader.

. A friend remarked the other day, "The laureate will be appointed before you get lialf-way through your fist of 'possibles'; and when I smilingly assented, I little thought that I should have reached only the first name ere the cable came announcing that Dr Robert Bridges was Poet Loureate. And I was within an ace of achieving fame as a prophet. Originally I intended putting Robert Bridges first on the lists; but ther- "dauber" came along and I got so fascinated with the ballad that I wanted to write about Masefield while my blood was hot. It is perhaps just as well, for there is' nothing more disconcerting to the literary mind than having a ■reputation for anything in particular and being expected to live up to it. From long experience my readers have learnt not to expect anything from me—not even the keeping of promises—which is one reason why we continue such good friends. A week or two back, passing under review the names of the poets suggested as suitable for the office of Laureate, I wrote: "From a purely literary point of view, and the popular factor excluded altogether, the claim of Mr Robert Bridges—he is now in his 70th year—should not lightly be passed over." Many good reasons can be educed for Robert Bridge's succession to the Laureateship. Foremost amongst these is the fact that par excellence he is the poet of the Thames. William Sharp stressed this fact more than ten years ago when contributing his papers on "Literary Geography" to the Pall Mall Magazine. For one of those papers, entitled "The Thames from Oxford to the Nore," commences thus: — The literary geography of the Thames! Is not this a more hazardous undertaking than would be an itinerary of the Lake Country, or of that which follows on the long waters of Geneva? For who could number the many who have written about, or sung 0f,,0r dwelt beside, or had some abiding association with our great river—even if only unwilling baptism such as befd Mr Yerdant Green, or such undignified immersion as was the damp fate of Sir John Falstaff, when his huge bulk secured in the buck bas. ket, he was ignominiously chucked into the deep flood bv Datchet Mead? Since Chaucer crossed "Thamesis" in the Tower Ferry, or Shakespeare recrossed from Southwark to the reedy shore of; silt and mud known as the Strand, till Samuel Pepys "took barge" (with pretty Mrs Manuel singing all-the way) to visit friends by the sequestered and rural Hamlet of Putney; what a far cry? What a far cry again, till in Gravesend Reach, David Peggotty says good-bye to Peggotty and Mrs Gummidge. . . Or on another occasion Mr Micawher and the twins pass from our ken. . . Or till Mr William Black entertains us with his house 3 boat on the tinner reaches: or till we see. William Morris walking Hammersmith riverside in swift twilight travellings as though to overtake some caravan beypnd price; pondering ideal Tliames scenes (alas! remoter now even than then, for the desecration of the jerry builder is now on every wayside) to be limned in "A Dream of John Bull," or in "News from Nowhere"; or till in a roomy old boat on the upper waters below Kelmseott Manor, near Lechdale, we have a glimpse of Rossetti's writing part at least of his lovely "Stream's Secret"; '" or till "by still Isis" Matthew Arnold wanders, conning the stanzas of "The Scholar Gypsy." ... In a word, from Chaucer to Milton, from Milton to Shelley, from Shelley to the -latest true poet of the Thames—Mr Robert Bridges —what a catalogue of sounding names,

This places Robert Bridges in the leal poetic succession. In the late Professor Dowden's "New Studies in Literature," a series.of papers which originally appeared in the Fortnightly Review in the ate nineties, there is a capita] criticism of

" The Poetry of Robert Bridges," a part of which mas: "Mr Bridges has published nothing that is not carefully considered and wrought to such, excellence as can be conferred on it by studious and delicate workmanship. He is . doubtless known best by his 'Shorter Poems.' . . . And it is not ill that he should be first thought of as a writer of lyrics, bo much excellent lyrical verse has been written by poets within the last' halfcentury that it is difficult to conjecture an order of merit but some persons will incline to believe that Mr' Miles exercised :\ sound judgment when he named the eighth volume of his poetical encyclopedia, (in which writers younger than Mr William Morris and younger than' Mr Swinburne appear), 'Robert Bridges and Contemporary Poets.'"•'The almost prophetic insight possessed by Mr Miles stands out still more strikingly in the later i«ue of "The Poets and the Poetry of the Nineteenth Century," since the short, title of the same eighth volume "s now "Bridges'to Kipling." Born in Kent, Robert Bridges was educated at Kton, and in his lines "Founders' Day: A Secular Ode on the Ninth Jubilee of Eton College," we catch an echo of the poet's own school days—for both at school and at college—he graduated in Arts at Corpus Christi, Oxford, he was nn expert oarsman and cricketer: — 0 vo. 'ncath brec7y skies of Tune, By silver Thames's lulling tune, In shade of willow or oak, who try The golden gates of poesy; Or on the tabled sward all day Match your strength in England's play, Scholars of Henry, giving grace To toil and force in game or race; Or whether with naked bodice flashing Yo plunge in the lashing weir; or dash-

mg The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain Bound the rushes and homo again;— Or what pursuit soo'er it be That makes your mingled presence free, When by the schoolgate 'neath the limes Yo muster waiting the lazy chimce; Here is eternal spring; for you ■ The very 6lars of heaven are new; And aged Fame again is borne, Fresh as a peepiii2 flower of mprn. For you shall Shakespearcs' 6cene unroll, Mozart shall steal your ravished soul, Homer his bardic hymn rehearse, Virgil recite his maiden verse. - Now, learn, love, have, do, be the best; Bach in one thing excel the rest'; Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven— To him that hath shall more be given. Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep, So many hour's till 6tudy tire, So many hours for heart's-desire. These suns and moons' shall, memory

Pave, Mirrors brglit for her magic cave; _ Wherein may steadfast eyes behold A self that 'gnweth never old. - - - Or in such prime enjoy your lot, And when ye leave regret it not; With wishing gift 6 in festal state Pass ye the angel-swordcd gate. Then to Hie world lot shine your light, Children in play bo lions in fight, And match with red immortal deeds The victory that mado ring the meads; Or by firm wisdom save' your land From giddy head and grasping hand; Improve the best; 60 shall your son 6 Better what ye have.bettered once.

Prcfcssor Dowden acknowledges his indebtedness to Father Gerard Hopkins, "an English priest of the Society of Jesus" who died young, for an.introduction to the poetry of Bobert Bridges. Bridges dedicates Bonk II of the ''Shorter Poems" "To the Memory of G.M.H." Whether this be taken as proof of indentification or no, Professor Dowden says: "Father Hopkins was a lover of literature and himself a poet. Perhaps he did in many quarters -missionary work on behalf of the poetry of his favourite Robert Bridges. He certainly left a good many years since at my door two volumes by l\lr Bridges, and with them a note begging that I would make no acknowledgment of the gift. I acknowledge it now." May I take advantatre of the introduction of Professor Dowden's name to mention a small personal matter? When preparing the appreciation

of the late Professor Dowdcn, which appeared on this pago a month or two back, I detected a alight error, in the article on Bishop Dowdcn in the Dictionary of National Biography, of.which Sir Sidney tee is editor. On the slight chance that the error was still undetected I wrote to Sir Sidney Lee, and at the same time sent him a copy of my Dowden article. A mail or two ago I recedyed the following courteous note:—

103 a Lexham Gardens, Kensington-W., 27 May, 1913. Dear Sir.—l am much obliged to you for your letter, and for sending meyour full and appreciative notice of Dowden in the Otago Daily Times. Dbwdeh's death was comparatively little noticed here, and I welcome your generous appreciation. You give good reasons for the space which your article fills. I always regarded Dowden's work with a great admiration, and hope that he will Be long remembered. Many thanks for your correction of the error in our article on Bishop Dowden. It is being made in the reprint of our first volume. The Bishop's daughter had already called my attention to the matter.

With kind regards, 1 am, yours very truly, SIDNEY LEE. This second book of the "Shorter Poems," dedicated to Father Hopkins, and left by the young priest at Dowden's door, contains some of the choicest lyrics that Robert Bridges has brought into being. And the Poet Laureate is responsible for many beautiful lyrics in which, as Professor Herbert Warren so well phrases it, "grace and gravity have been betrothed, and are wedded, and have not been divorced." "If," the same critic adds, "his muse as something shy and proud, she is by comparison sane and sweet."- Apropos of the passing of Father Hopkins and Professor Dowden, what could be more suitable for meditation than some of the stanzas, from the "Elegy Among the Tombs":— : Read the worn names of tho forgotten dead, Their pompous legends will no smile awake; Even the vainglorious title o'er the head Wins its pride pardon for Hs sorrow's sake; And carven Loves scorn not their dusty

prize, Though fallen so far from tender sympathies.

And where aro all their spirits? Ah! could wo tell The manner of our being when we die, And see beyond the scene we know so wpii The country that so much obscured , doth_' lie?' ; With brightest visions our fond hope pair,Or crown our melancholv with despair. From death, still death, 6till would a comfort come; Since of this world the essential joy must fall In all distributed, in each thing some, la nothing all and all complete in all; Till pleasure, ageing to her lull increase, Puts on perfection and is throned in peace. Yea, sweetest peace, unsought for, undesired, - Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here; Though in most black habiliments attired, Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear. Nay, were my last hope quenched I here would sit And praise the annihilation.of .the pit.

Robert • Bridges is blest among his brother poets in that he has never tasted the bitterness of poverty. So fortunate was he that at the early age of 38 he was able to retire from the profession of medicine, and leaving London, where he had been assistant physician at the Children's Hospital in Great Ormond street, and physician at the Great Northern Hospital, he settled at Yattendon, in Berkshire, where he married Mary Monica, elder daughter of Alfred Waterhouse, architect and Royal Academician. One of his lyrics is reminiscent of those days in London when hospital duties compelled long and often irksome night watches: —

LONDON SNOW. When men were all asleep mo 6now came nymg, In large white flakes falling on the city • 'brown, Steaitnuy and perpetually settling and iooseiy lying, Hushing tne iifcC6t traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazny and incessantly floating down and down; SilemiT sntmg and veiling road, roof, railing; Hiding differences, making unevenncts even,

Into- angles and crevices softly- drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uucompacted iightncss, The ciouas blew off from a high and trosty heaven; And all awoke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare; The eye marvelled at the dazzung whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemai air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And tne busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I hoard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; Or rioted in a drift plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the whitemossed wonder, " 0 look at the trees!" they cried, " 0 look at the trees!" With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the. white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder; When now already the sun in pale display, Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below ' Ilia sparkling beams and awoke the stir of the day. , For now doors open, and war is waged with the 6now; And trains of sombre men, past tale of ■ number, Trend long brown paths, ns toward their

toil they go; But even for them awhi'e no cares en-

cumber, Their minds diverted; the daily word i 6 unspoken, The-daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At tho eight of tho beauty that greets them for tho charm-they have broken.

Professor Dowden was impelled to re-spond-to the silent pleading of Father Gerald Hopkins, because in those days "Mr Bridges more than some other men of letters needed a mediator between his work and the public.' He had never learnt the art of self-advertisement. The interviewer has not appeared at Yattendon or captured him in some shy nook on his Moved Thames. Among poets he has been somewhat of a scholar gipsy. . . .

There is comfort for the critic in this, and perhaps there is comfort also in the fact that ho is not a poet with a mission; he has no new creed to proclaim to the age; ho need fear no Robert Bridges' society. All he has to tell is that he loves beauty and loves love; and aJI he has done is to praise God in the best of ways by making some beautiful things." It is therefore highly probable that Air Bridges' sense of pleasure at being appointed Poet Laureate may be marred by the curiosity excited as to his personality and private life; and the solitude of Yattendon may yet be broken by the intrusion of the übiquitous interviewer in search of "copy" with which to.satisfy the inquiring public. Ho.w sweet the soli-

tudes of Nature are to the Poet Laureate may be gathered from a stanza or two from one of his choicest lyrics:—' There is a hill beside the silver Thames, Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine; . And brilliant underfoot with thousand ■ gems Steeply tho thickets to his floods decline. Straight trees in every place Their thick tops interlace, And pendant branches trail their foliage fine Upon his watery (ace. 1 Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows; His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes Straight to the caverned pool his toil . has,made. -. His' winter floods lay bare The stout roots in lie air; , His summer streams are «ol when they have played \ Among their fibrous hair. :'■ A rushy island guards the sacred bower, And hides it from the meadow where in peace The lazy oows wrench many a scented flower, Robbing the golden market of the bees; And laden barges float By banks of myosote; ' And 6cented flag and golden flower-dc-lys Delay tho loitering boat. Where is this bower beside the silver Thames? 0 pool and flowery thicket, hear my vow! 0 trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, No sharer of my secret I allow; Lest ere I come the while Strange feet your shades defile; Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow Within your guardian isle.

Probably one reason that led Mr Robert Bridges to decide upon Yattendon as his permanent country residence was because there dwelt Alfred Waterhouse, the man who founded and was president.of "The Society for Chocking the Abuses of Public ; Advertising," and it was scarcely likely that the advertising fiend with his placards ' and his whitewash brush would attempt, to desecrate the beauty of. the sylvan scenes of that delightful Berkshire village. Waterhouse acquired a house and estate at Yattendon in 1877, five years before Robert Bridges went to live there- ' 'lliifi celebrated architect built Yattendon Court for his own residence and restored the fabric of the village church partly at his own expense, and it is said that the village became a visible testimony to his sense of the obligations of a landlord. In 1901 Waterhouse's health broke down, and he retired from active work. His last years were spent at Yattendon, where he died on August 22, 1905, and was tried in the churchyard. Robert Bridges married Miss Waterhouse in 1884, and the story of the courtship is movingly told in his sonnet sequence, "The Growth of Love." Professor Warren regards this as the Poet Laureate most remarkable work, "reaching the highest height, the deepest depth in thought and in expression, of all his writings." And Professor Dowden. writes :—" ' The Growth of Love ' deserves the good fortune that befalls books when they ware forth to choose lovers out of the crowd—those who in a book hear the right voice and follow it. The Sonnets, many of the Italian, a few of the English model, are nearly fourscore in number, some of them forming a sequence, sume standing apart or permitting themselves tn be lightly detached. Love, as Mt Bridges treats it, is no isolated passion of our nature but runs into all the higher joys and connects itself with all the deeper sorrows of the spirit. It is a tributary of beauty, of thought, of art, of devotion, orthese are tributaries of it.. His treatment of the theme is subtle, delicate, refined, but his subtlety seldom takes the form of metaphysical "conceits." The peculiar sanity and sweetness of " The Growth of Love'" may be all the better enjoyed when read in contrast to the clinging cloying of the "Sonnets to the Portuguese" or the strong sensuousness of D. G. Rossetti s " The House of Life." It is a matter of difficulty to make a suitable selection, but the following few sonnets should send many admirers of beautiful vei'se to Robert Bridge's "Collected Works" in the Public Library :— 10. Winter was not unkind because uncouth; His prison'd time made me a closer quest, And gave thy graciousnees a warmer zest Biting ah else'with keen add angry tooth; And bravelier the triumphant blood of youth Mantling thy cheek its happy home passest, And sterner sport by day put strength to test, And custom's feast at night gave tongue to truth. Or 6iy, 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 to nightingales that sang On dewy eves in spring, did they entice To gentler love than winter's icy fang. 24. Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace; Her melting air, at - every breath we draw, Floods hearts 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 conquered face is full of awe; As now the trait'ress north with icy flaw Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece, And 'neath tho mock sun searching everywhere Rattles tho crisped leaves with shivering din; So that tho birds are silent with despair Within the thickets; nor their armour thin Will gaudy flies adventure in the air, Nor any lizard sun hio spotted skin. .

30. My lady pleases mo and 1 please her; This know we both, and 1 besides know-

well Wherefore I !ove her, and I lovo to tell My love, as all my loving songs aver. But what on her part could tho passion stir, Tho' 'tis more difficult for lovo 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 lovo her, then Loves mc for knowing why she should be' loved, And that I love to praise her, loves again; So from hor beauty both'our: loves aro moved, And by hor beauty are sustain'd; nor when The earth falls from the sun is this disproved. 67. Dreary was winter, wet with changeful sting Of clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost; And bitterer north winds then withheld tho spring, That dallied with hor promise till 'twas lost. A sunless and half-hearted summer diown'd The flowers in needful and unwelcom'd rain: And autumn, with a sad smile fled uncrown'd From fruitless orchards and unripen'd " grain. But could the skies of th : s most desolate year In its last month learn with our love to glow, Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphere Above the sunsets of five years ago; Of my great praise, too, part should be its own Now rockon'd peerless for thy love alone, I must reserve for another occasion some comments on other aspects of the Poet Laureate's work, including his careful annotation of Keats's verse and his critical analysis of Miltonia" prosody, Milton, by-the-bye, being the only other English poet with whom Robert Bridges has much in common, and with whom he may, be compared. As final sample of his singing, I quote some lines made familiar several years ago by Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch in his well-known "Cornish Window" papers: —

A PASSERBY

Whither, 0 splendid ship, thy white sails

crowding, Loaning across 'the Ixxsom of the urgent West, That fearest nor eea-rising, nor ek.y-ciomliiig, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? Ah ! soon, when Winter has all our vales

opprest, When skies arc cold and misty, and hail is

hurling, Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest

In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, . Already arrived, am inhaling the odorous air:

I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest Peal;, that is over the feathery palms more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still . thou standest.

And yet, 0 splendid ship, unbailed and nameless, I know not if, aiming- a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful,- a &>uragcblameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. But for all I ha-vo given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, Aslant -with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curvo of the prow's lino _ . In the offing scattered foam, thy white sails crowding.

EDITION