Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 2 — John Shaqi
Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 2Bridges, Robert
General
Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 2
Bridges, Robert
English drama; English poetry
High on the mound the ivied arbour stood,
A dome of straw upheld on rustic wood:
Hidden in fern the steps of the ascent,
Whereby unto the southern front we went,
And from the dark plantation climbing free,
Over a valley look’d out on the sea.
That sea is ever bright and blue, the sky
Serene and blue, and ever white ships lie
High on the horizon steadfast in full sail,
Or nearer in the roads pass within hail
Of naked brigs and barques that windbound ride
At their taut cables heading to the tide.
There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, now
The brazen disk is cold against my brow,
And in my sight a circle of the sea
Enlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee,
And ships in stately motion pass so near
That what I see is speaking to my ear:
I hear the waves dash and the tackle strain,
The canvas flap, the rattle of the chain
That runs out thro’ the hawse, the clank of the wind
Winding the rusty cable inch by inch,
Till half I wonder if they have no care,
Those sailors, that my glass is brought to bear
On all their doings, if I vex them not
On every petty task of their rough lot
Prying and spying, searching every craft
From painted truck to gunnel, fore and aft,—
Thro’ idle Sundays as I have watch’d them lean
Long hours upon the rail, or neath its screen
Prone on the deck to lie outstretch’d at length,
Sunk in renewal of their wearied strength.
But what a feast of joy to me, if some
Fast-sailing frigate to the Channel come
Back’d here her topsail, or brought gently up
Let from her bow the splashing anchor drop,
By faint contrary wind stay’d in her cruise,
The _Phaethon_ or dancing _Arethuse_,
Or some immense three-decker of the line,
Romantic as the tale of Troy divine;
Ere yet our iron age had doom’d to fall
The towering freeboard of the wooden wall,
And for the engines of a mightier Mars
Clipp’d their wide wings, and dock’d their soaring spars.
The gale that in their tackle sang, the wave
That neath their gilded galleries dasht so brave
Lost then their merriment, nor look to play
With the heavy-hearted monsters of to-day.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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