Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 1

Chapter IV: Part 4

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But hapless Psyche fell, for so it chanced,
To moody SYNETHEA’S care, the one
Of Aphrodite’s train whom she advanced
To try the work abandon’d by her son.
Who by perpetual presence made ill end
Of good or bad; though she coud both amend,
And merit praise for work by her begun.

But she to better thought her heart had shut,
And proved she had a spite beyond compare:
Nor coud the keenest taunts her anger glut,
Which she when sour’d was never wont to spare:
And now she mock’d at Psyche’s shame and grief,
As only she might do, and to her chief
Along the courtyard dragg’d her by the hair.

Nor now was Aphrodite kinder grown:
Having her hated rival in her power,
She laught for joy, and in triumphant tone
Bade her a merry welcome to her bower:
‘’Tis fit indeed daughters-in-law should wait
Upon their mothers; but thou comest late,
Psyche; I lookt for thee before this hour.

‘And yet,’ thus gave she rein to jeer and gibe,
‘Forgive me if I held thee negligent,
Or if accustom’d vanity ascribe
An honour to myself that was not meant.
Thy lover is it, who so dearly prized
The pretty soul, then left her and despised?
To him more like thy heavenward steps were bent:

‘Nor without reason: Zeus, I tell thee, swoon’d
To hear the story of the drop of oil,
The revelation and the ghastly wound:
My merriment is but my fear’s recoil.
But if my son was unkind, thou shalt see
How kind a goddess can his mother be
To bring thy tainted honour clear of soil.’

And so, to match her promise with her mirth,
Two of her ministers she call’d in ken,
That work the melancholy of the earth;
MERIMNA that with care perplexes, when
The hearts of mortals have the gods forgot,
And LYPÈ, that her sorrow spares them not,
When mortals have forgot their fellow men.

These, like twin sharks that in a fair ship’s wake
Swim constant, showing ’bove the water blue
Their shearing fins, and hasty ravin make
Of overthrow or offal, so these two
On Aphrodite’s passing follow hard;
And now she offer’d to their glut’s regard
Sweet Psyche, with command their wont to do.

But in what secret chamber their foul task
These soul-tormentors plied, or what their skill,
Pity of tender nature may not ask,
Nor poet stain his rhyme with such an ill.
But they at last themselves turn’d from their rack,
Weary of cruelty, and led her back,
Saying that further torture were to kill.

Then when the goddess saw her, more she mockt,
‘Art thou the woman of the earth,’ she said,
‘That hast in sorceries mine Eros lockt,
And stood thyself for worship in my stead?
Looking that I should pity thee, or care
For what illicit offspring thou mayst bear;
Or let thee to that god my son be wed?

‘I know thy trick; and thou art one of them
Who steal love’s favour in the gentle way,
Wearing submission for a diadem,
Patience and suffering for thy rich array:
Thou wilt be modest, kind, implicit, so
To rest thy wily spirit out of show
That it may leap the livelier into play:

‘Devout at doing nothing, if so be
The grace become thee well; but active yet
Above all others be there none to see
Thy business, and thine eager face asweat.
Lo! I will prove thy talent: thou mayst live,
And all that thou desirest will I give,
If thou perform the task which I shall set.’

She took her then aside, and bade her heed
A heap of grains piled high upon the floor,
Millet and mustard, hemp and poppy seed,
And fern-bloom’s undistinguishable spore,
All kinds of pulse, of grasses, and of spice,
Clover and linseed, rape, and corn, and rice,
Dodder, and sesame, and many more.

‘Sort me these seeds’ she said; ‘it now is night,
I will return at morning; if I find
That thou hast separated all aright,
Each grain from other grain after its kind,
And set them in unmingl’d heaps apart,
Then shall thy wish be granted to thine heart.’
Whereat she turn’d, and closed the door behind.

EROS & PSYCHE

FOURTH QUARTER
WINTER

PSYCHE’S TRIALS AND RECEPTION
INTO HEAVEN

DECEMBER

A single lamp there stood beside the heap,
And shed thereon its mocking golden light;
Such as might tempt the weary eye to sleep
Rather than prick the nerve of taskèd sight.
Yet Psyche, not to fail for lack of zeal,
With good will sat her down to her ordeal,
Sorting the larger seeds as best she might.

When lo! upon the wall, a shadow past
Of doubtful shape, across the chamber dim
Moving with speed: and seeing nought that cast
The shade, she bent her down the flame to trim;
And there the beast itself, a little ant,
Climb’d up in compass of the lustre scant,
Upon the bowl of oil ran round the rim.

Smiling to see the creature of her fear
So dwarf’d by truth, she watcht him where he crept,
For mere distraction telling in his ear
What straits she then was in, and telling wept.
Whereat he stood and trim’d his horns; but ere
Her tale was done resumed his manner scare,
Ran down, and on his way in darkness kept.

But she intent drew forth with dextrous hand
The larger seeds, or push’d the smaller back,
Or light from heavy with her breathing fan’d.
When suddenly she saw the floor grow black,
And troops of ants, flowing in noiseless train,
Moved to the hill of seeds, as o’er a plain
Armies approach a city for attack;

And gathering on the grain, began to strive
With grappling horns: and each from out the heap
His burden drew, and all their motion live
Struggled and slid upon the surface steep.
And Psyche wonder’d, watching them, to find
The creatures separated kind from kind:
Till dizzied with the sight she fell asleep.

And when she woke ’twas with the morning sound
Of Aphrodite’s anger at the door,
Whom high amaze stay’d backward, as she found
Her foe asleep with all her trouble o’er:
And round the room beheld, in order due,
The piles arranged distinct and sorted true,
Grain with grain, seed with seed, and spore with spore.

She fiercely cried ‘Thou shalt not thus escape;
For to this marvel dar’st thou not pretend.
There is but one that coud this order shape,
Demeter,--but I knew her not thy friend.
Therefore another trial will I set,
In which she cannot aid thee nor abet,
But thou thyself must bring it fair to end.’

Thereon she sped her to the bounds of Thrace,
And set her by a river deep and wide,
And said ‘To east beyond this stream, a race
Of golden-fleecèd sheep at pasture bide.
Go seek them out; and this thy task, to pull
But one lock for me of their precious wool,
And give it in my hands at eventide:

‘This do and thou shalt have thy heart’s desire.’
Which said, she fled and left her by the stream:
And Psyche then, with courage still entire
Had plunged therein; but now of great esteem
Her life she rated, while it lent a spell
Wherein she yet might hope to quit her well,
And in one winning all her woes redeem.

There as she stood in doubt, a fluting voice
Rose from the flood, ‘Psyche, be not afraid
To hear a reed give tongue, for ’twas of choice
That I from mortal flesh a plant was made.
My name is Syrinx; once from mighty Pan
Into the drowning river as I ran,
A fearful prayer my steps for ever stay’d.

‘But by that change in many climes I live;
And Pan, my lover, who to me alone
Is true and does me honour, I forgive--
Nor if I speak in sorrow is’t my own:
Rather for thee my voice I now uplift
To warn thee plunge not in the river swift,
Nor seek the golden sheep to men unknown.

‘If thou should cross the stream, which may not be
Thou coudst not climb upon the hanging rocks,
Nor ever, as the goddess bade thee, see
The pasture of the yellow-fleecèd flocks:
Or if thou coud, their herded horns would gore
And slay thee on the crags, or thrust thee o’er
Ere thou coudst rob them of their golden locks.

‘The goddess means thy death. But I can show
How thy obedience yet may thwart her will.
At noon the golden flocks descend below,
Leaving the scented herbage of the hill,
And where the shelving banks to shallows fall,
Drink at the rippling water one and all,
Nor back return till they have drawn their fill.

‘I will command a thornbush, that it stoop
Over some ram that steppeth by in peace,
And him in all its prickles firmly coop,
Making thee seizure of his golden fleece;
So without peril of his angry horns
Shalt thou be quit: for he upon the thorns
Must leave his ransom ere he win release.’

Then Psyche thankt her for her kind befriending,
And hid among the rushes looking east;
And when noon came she saw the flock descending
Out of the hills; and lo! one golden beast
Caught in a thornbush; and the mighty brute
Struggl’d and tore it from its twisted root
Into the stream, or e’er he was releas’t.

And when they water’d were and gone, the breeze
Floated the freighted thorn where Psyche lay:
Whence she unhook’d the golden wool at ease,
And back to heaven for passage swift gan pray.
And Hermes, who was sent to be her guide
Ifso she lived, came down at eventide,
And bore her thither ere the close of day.

But when the goddess saw the locks of gold
Held to her hands, her heart with wrath o’erran:
‘Most desperate thou, and by abetting bold,
That dost outwit me, prove thee as I can.
Yet this work is not thine: there is but one
Of all the gods who coud the thing have done.
Hast thou a friend too in the lusty Pan?

‘I’ll give thee trial where he cannot aid.’
Which said, she led her to a torrid land,
Level and black, but not with flood or shade,
For nothing coud the mighty heat withstand,
Which aye from morn till eve the naked sun
Pour’d on that plain, where never foot had run,
Nor any herb sprung on its molten sand.

Far off a gloomy mountain rose alone:
And Aphrodite, thither pointing, said
‘There lies thy task. Out of the topmost stone
Of yonder hill upwells a fountain head.
Take thou this goblet; brimming must thou bring
Its cup with water from that sacred spring,
If ever to my son thou wouldst be wed.’

Saying, she gave into her hands a bowl
Cut of one crystal, open, broad and fair;
And bade her at all hazard keep it whole,
For heaven held nought beside so fine or rare.
Then was she gone; and Psyche on the plain
Now doubted if she ever should regain
The love of Eros, strove she howsoe’er.

Yet as a helmsman, at the word to tack,
Swiftly without a thought puts down his helm,
So Psyche turn’d to tread that desert black,
Since was no fear that coud her heart o’erwhelm;
Nor knew she that she went the fount to seek
Of cold Cocytus, springing to the peak,
Secretly from his source in Pluto’s realm.

All night and day she journey’d, and at last
Come to the rock gazed up in vain around:
Nothing she saw but precipices vast
O’er ruined scarps, with rugged ridges crown’d:
And creeping to a cleft to rest in shade,
Or e’er the desperate venture she assay’d,
She fell asleep upon the stony ground.

A dream came to her, thus: she stood alone
Within her palace in the high ravine;
Where nought but she was changed, but she to stone.
Worshippers throng’d the court, and still were seen
Folk flying from the peak, who, ever more
Flying and flying, lighted on the floor,
_Hail!_ cried they, _wife of Eros, adorèd queen!_

A hurtling of the battl’d air disturb’d
Her sunken sense, and waked her eyes to meet
The kingly bird of Zeus, himself that curb’d
His swooping course, alighting at her feet;
With motion gentle, his far-darting eye
In kindness dim’d upon her, he drew nigh,
And thus in words unveil’d her foe’s deceit:

‘In vain, poor Psyche, hast thou hither striven
Across the fiery plain toiling so well;
Cruelly to destruction art thou driven
By her, whose hate thou canst not quit nor quell.
No mortal foot may scale this horrid mount,
And those black waters of its topmost fount
Are guarded by the hornèd snakes of hell.

‘Its little rill is an upleaping jet
Of cold Cocytus, which for ever licks
Earth’s base, and when with Acheron ’tis met,
Its waters with that other cannot mix,
Which holds the elemental air dissolved;
But with it in its ceaseless course revolved
Issues unmingl’d in the lake of Styx.

‘The souls of murderers, in guise of fish,
Scream as they swim therein and wail for cold,
Their times of woe determined by the wish
Of them they murder’d on the earth of old:
Whom each five years they see, whene’er they make
Their passage to the Acherusian lake,
And there release may win from pains condoled.

‘For if the pitying ear of them they slew
Be haply piercèd by their voices spare,
Then are they freed from pain; as are some few;
But, for the most, again they forward fare
To Tartarus obscene, and outcast thence
Are hurried back into the cold intense,
And with new company their torments share.

‘Its biting lymph may not be touch’d of man
Or god, unless the Fates have so ordain’d;
Nor coud I in thy favour break the ban,
Nor pass the dragons that thereby are chain’d,
Didst thou not bear the sacred cup of Zeus;
Which, for thy peril lent, shall turn to use,
And truly do the service which it feign’d.’

Thus as he spake, his talons made he ring
Around the crystal bowl, and soaring high
Descended as from heaven upon the spring:
Nor dared the hornèd snakes of hell deny
The minister of Zeus, that bore his cup,
To fill it with their trusted water up,
Thence to the King of heaven therewith to fly.

But he to Psyche bent his gracious speed,
And bidding her to mount his feather’d back
Bore her aloft as once young Ganymede;
Nor ever made his steady flight to slack,
Ere that he set her down beside her goal,
And gave into her hands the crystal bowl
Unspill’d, o’erbrimming with the water black.

JANUARY

But Eros now recover’d from his hurt,
Felt other pangs; for who would not relent
Weighing the small crime and unmatch’d desert
Of Psyche with her cruel punishment?
And shamed he grew to be so near allied
To her, who by her taunts awoke his pride,
As his compassion by her spite unspent.

Which Aphrodite seeing, wax’d more firm
That he should never meet with Psyche more;
And had in thought already set the term
To their communion with that trial sore,
Which sent her forth upon a quest accurst,
And not to be accomplisht, that of thirst
She there might perish on hell’s torrid shore.

And now it chanced that she had called her son
Into her presence-chamber, to unfold
Psyche’s destruction, that her fate might stun
What love remained by duty uncontrol’d;
And he to hide his tears’ rebellious storm
Was fled; when in his place another form
Rose ’neath the golden lintel; and behold

Psyche herself, in slow and balanced strain,
Poising the crystal bowl with fearful heed,
Her eyes at watch upon the steadied plane,
And whole soul gather’d in the single deed.
Onward she came, and stooping to the floor
Set down the cup unspill’d and brimming o’er
At Aphrodite’s feet, and rose up freed.

Surprise o’ercame the goddess, and she too
Stood like a statue, but with passion pale:
Till, when her victim nothing spake, she threw
Some kindness in her voice, and bade her hail;
But in the smiling judge ’twas plain to see--
Saying ‘What water bringst thou here to me?’—
That justice over hate should not prevail.

Then Psyche said ‘This is the biting flood
Of black Cocytus, silver’d with the gleam
Of souls, that guilty of another’s blood
Are pent therein, and as they swim they scream.
The hornèd snakes of hell, upon the mount
Enchain’d, for ever guard the livid fount:
And but the Fates can grant to touch the stream.’

‘Wherefore,’ the goddess cried, ‘’tis plain that none
But one I wot of coud this thing have wrought.
That which another doth may well be done,
Nor thou the nearer to my promise brought.
Thou buildest on a hope to be destroy’d,
If thou accept conditions, and avoid
Thy parcel, nor thyself accomplish aught.

‘Was it not kindness in me, being averse
To all thy wish, to yield me thus to grant
Thy heart’s desire,--and nothing loathe I worse,—
If thou wouldst only work as well as want?
See, now I will not yet be all denial,
But offer thee one last determining trial;
And let it be a mutual covenant:

‘This box,’ and in her hands she took a pyx
Square-cut, of dark obsidian’s rarest green,
‘Take; and therewith beyond Tartarean Styx
Go thou, and entering Hades’ house obscene,
Say to Persephonè, _If ’tis thy will
To shew me so much favour, prithee fill
This little vase with beauty for Love’s queen_.

‘_She begs but what shall well o’erlast a day;
For of her own was much of late outspent
In nursing of her son, in bed who lay
Wounded by me, who for the gift am sent._
Then bring me what she gives, and with all speed;
For truth to say I stand, thou seest, in need
Of some such charm in my disparagement.

‘If thou return to me with that acquist,
Having thyself the journey made, I swear
That day to give thee whatsoe’er thou list,
An be it my son. Now, Psyche, wilt thou dare?’
And Psyche said ‘If this thou truly mean,
I will go down to Tartarus obscene,
And beg of Hades’ queen thy beauty there.

‘Show me the way.’ But Aphrodite said,
‘That mayst thou find. Yet I will place thee whence
A way there is: mortals have on it sped;
Ay, and return’d thereby: so let us hence.’
Then swift to earth her willing prey she bore,
And left her on the wide Laconian shore,
Alone, at midnight, in the darkness dense.

’Twas winter; and as shivering Psyche sat
Waiting for morn, she question’d in her mind
What place the goddess meant, arrived whereat
She might descend to hell, or how should find
The way which Gods to living men deny.
‘No Orpheus, nay, nor Hercules am I,’
Said she,‘to loosen where the great Gods bind.’

And when at length the long-delaying dawn
Broke on the peaks of huge Taÿgetus,
And Psyche through the skirts of dark withdrawn
Look’d on that promontory mountainous,
And saw high-crested Taleton in snow,
Her heart sank, and she wept with head bent low
The malice of her foe dispiteous.

And seeing near at hand an ancient tower,
Deserted now, but once a hold of men,
She came thereto, and, though ’twas all her power,
Mounted its steep unbroken stair again.
‘Surely,’ she said, for now a second time
She thought to die--‘this little height I climb
Will prove my shortest road to Pluto’s den.

‘Hence must I come to Tartarus; once there
Turn as I may,’ and straight to death had sprung;
When in the mossy tower the imprison’d air
Was shaken, and the hoary stones gave tongue,
‘Stand firm! stand firm!’ that rugged voice outcried;
‘Of such as choose despondency for guide
Hast thou not heard what bitterest fate is sung?

‘Hearken; for I the road and means can teach
How thou mayst come to hell and yet escape.
And first must thou, that upper gate to reach,
Along these seagirt hills thy journey shape,
To where the land in sea dips furthest South
At Tænarus and Hades’ earthly mouth,
Hard by Poseidon’s temple at the cape.

‘Thereby may one descend: but they that make
That passage down must go provided well.
So take in either hand a honey-cake
Of pearlèd barley mix’d with hydromel;
And in thy mouth two doits, first having bound
The pyx beneath thy robe enwrap’d around:
Thus set thou forth; and mark what more I tell.

‘When thou hast gone alone some half thy road
Thou wilt o’ertake a lame outwearied ass;
And one that beats him, tottering ’neath his load
Of loosely bundl’d wood, will cry _Alas;
Help me, kind friend, my faggots to adjust!_
But thou that silly cripple’s words mistrust;
’Tis planted for thy death. Note it and pass.

‘And when thy road the Stygian river joins,
Where woolly Charon ferries o’er the dead,
He will demand his fare: one of thy coins
Force with thy tongue between thy teeth, thy head
Offering instead of hand to give the doit.
His fingers in this custom are adroit,
And thine must not set down the barleybread.

‘Then in his crazy bark as, ferrying o’er
The stream, thou sittest, one that seems to float
Rather than swim, midway ’twixt shore and shore,
Will stretch his fleshless hand upon the boat,
And beg thee of thy pity take him in.
Shut thy soft ear unto his clamour thin,
Nor for a phantom deed thyself devote.

‘Next, on the further bank when thou art stept,
Three wizen’d women weaving at the woof
Will stop, and pray thee in their art adept
To free their tangl’d threads. Hold thou aloof;
For this and other traps thy foe hath plan’d
To make thee drop the cakes out of thy hand,
Putting thy prudence to perpetual proof.

‘For by one cake thou comest into Hell,
And by one cake departest; since the hound
That guards the gate is ever pleasèd well
To taste man’s meal, or sweeten’d grain unground.
Cast him a cake; for that thou mayst go free
Even to the mansion of Persephonè,
Withouten stay or peril, safe and sound.

‘She will receive thee kindly; thou decline
Her courtesies, and make the floor thy seat;
Refusing what is offer’d, food or wine;
Save only beg a crust of bread to eat.
Then tell thy mission, and her present take;
Which when thou hast, set forth with pyx and cake,
One in each hand, while yet thou mayst retreat.

‘Giving thy second cake to Cerberus,
The coin to Charon, and that way whereby
Thou earnest following, thou comest thus
To see again the starry choir on high.
But guard thou well the pyx, nor once uplift
The lid to look on Persephassa’s gift;
Else ’tis in vain I bid thee now not die.’

Then Psyche thank’d the tower, and stoopt her mouth
To kiss the stones upon his rampart hoary;
And coming down his stair went hasting south,
Along the steep Tænarian promontory;
And found the cave and temple by the cape,
And took the cakes and coins, and made escape
Beneath the earth, according to his story.

And overtook the ass, but lent no aid;
And offer’d Charon with her teeth his fee;
And pass’d the floating ghost, in vain who pray’d;
And turned her back upon the weavers three:
And threw the honey-cake to that hell-hound
Three-headed Cerberus; and safe and sound,
Came to the mansion of Persephonè.

Kindly received, she courtesy declined;
Sat on the ground; ate not, save where she lay,
A crust of bread; reveal’d the goddess’ mind;
The gift took; and return’d upon her way:
Gave Cerberus his cake, Charon his fare,
And saw through Hell’s mouth to the purple air
And one by one the keen stars melt in day.

Awhile from so long journeying in the shades
Resting at Tænarus she came to know
How, up the eastern coast some forty stades,
There stood a temple of her goddess foe.
There would she make her offering, there reclaim
The prize, which now ’twas happiness to name,
The joy that should redeem all passèd woe.

And wending by the sunny shore at noon,
She with her pyx, and wondering what it hid,
Of what kind, what the fashion of the boon
Coud be, that she to look on was forbid,—
Alas for Innocence so hard to teach!—
At fancy’s prick she sat her on the beach,
And to content desire lifted the lid.

She saw within nothing: But o’er her sight
That looked on nothing gan a darkness creep.
A cloudy poison, mix’d of Stygian night,
Rapt her to deadly and infernal sleep.
Backward she fell, like one when all is o’er,
And lay outstretch’d, as lies upon the shore
A drown’d corpse cast up by the murmuring deep.

FEBRUARY

While Eros in his chamber hid his tears,
Mourning the loss of Psyche and her fate,
The rumour of her safety reacht his ears
And how she came to Aphrodite’s gate:
Whereat with hope return’d his hardihood,
And secretly he purposed while he coud
Himself to save her from the goddess’ hate.

Then learning what he might and guessing more,
His ready wit came soon to understand
The journey to the far Laconian shore;
Whither to fly and seek his love he plan’d:
And making good escape in dark of night,
Ere the sun crost his true meridian flight
He by Teuthronè struck the southern strand.

There as it chanct he found that snowy bird
Of Crete, that late made mischief with his queen,
And now along the cliffs with wings unstir’d
Sail’d, and that morn had cross’d the sea between:
Whom as he past he hail’d, and question’d thus,
‘O snowy gull, if thou from Tænarus
Be come, say, hast thou there my Psyche seen?’

The gull replied ‘Thy Psyche have I seen;
Walking beside the sea she joy’th to bear
A pyx of dark obsidian’s rarest green,
Wherein she gazeth on her features fair.
She is not hence by now six miles at most.’
Then Eros bade him speed, and down the coast
Held on his passage through the buoyant air.

With eager eye he search’d the salty marge
Boding all mischief from his mother’s glee;
And wondering of her wiles, and what the charge
Shut in the dark obsidian pyx might be.
And lo! at last, outstretch’d beside the rocks,
Psyche as lifeless; and the open box
Laid with the weedy refuse of the sea.

He guess’d all, flew down, and beside her knelt.
With both his hands stroking her temples wan;
And for the poison with his fingers felt,
And drew it gently from her; and anon
She slowly from those Stygian fumes was freed;
Which he with magic handling and good heed
Replaced in pyx, and shut the lid thereon.

‘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

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?

The work is done, and from the fingers fall
The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro’:
The tasking eye that overrunneth all
Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.
Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower
Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;
Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour
The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.

And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;
To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,
True only should the swift life stand at stay:
Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.
Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;
Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

The fabled seasnake, old Leviathan,
Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine
That champ’d the oceanwrack and swash’d the brine,
Before the new and milder days of man,
Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan
Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,
Late-born of golden seed to breed a line
Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan.

Straight is her going, for upon the sun
When once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;
With tireless speed she smiteth one by one
The shuddering seas and foams along the main;
And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,
Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.

A thousand times hath in my heart’s behoof
My tongue been set his passion to impart;
A thousand times hath my too coward heart
My mouth reclosed and fix’d it to the roof;
Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,
A thousand times kept silence with such art
That words could do no more: yet on thy part
Hath silence given a thousand times reproof.

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Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 1Chapter IV: Part 4

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