The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

Name: The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas
Author: Bridges, Robert

Bridges, Robert

English poetry

This only, that in weeding out my shelves,
    In fatherly regard for babes upgrown,
    Until they learn to garden for themselves,
    Much as I like to keep my sets entire,
    When I came out to you I had just thrown
    Three of his precious works behind the fire.


    14

    TO ROBERT BURNS

    AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT

    1

    Thou art a poet, Robbie Burns,
    Master of words and witty turns,
    Of lilting songs and merry yarns,
      Drinking and kissing:
    There's much in all thy small concerns,
      But more that's missing.

    2

    The wisdom of thy common sense,
    Thy honest hate of vain pretence,
    Thy love and wide benevolence
      Full often lead thee
    Where feeling is its own defence;
      Yet while I read thee,

    3

    It seems but chance that all our race
    Trod not the path of thy disgrace,
    And, living freely to embrace
      The moment's pleasure,
    Snatch'd not a kiss of Nature's face
      For all her treasure.

    4

    The feelings soft, the spirits gay
    Entice on such a flowery way,
    And sovran youth in high heyday
      Hath such a fashion
    To glorify the bragging sway
      Of sensual passion.

    5

    But rakel Chance and Fortune blind
    Had not the power:--Eternal Mind
    Led man upon a way design'd,
      By strait selection
    Of pleasurable ways, to find
      Severe perfection.

    6

    For Nature did not idly spend
    Pleasure: she ruled it should attend
    On every act that doth amend
      Our life's condition:
    'Tis therefore not well-being's end,
      But its fruition.

    7

    Beasts that inherited delight
    In what promoted health or might,
    Survived their cousins in the fight:
      If some--like Adam--
    Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right,
      The devil had 'em.

    8

    So when man's Reason took the reins,
    She found that she was saved her pains;
    She had but to approve the gains
      Of agelong inscience,
    And spin it fresh into her brains
      As moral conscience.

    9

    But Instinct in the beasts that live
    Is of three kinds; (Nature did give
    To man three shakings in her sieve)--
      The first is Racial,
    The second Self-preservative,
      The third is Social.

    10

    Without the first no race could be,
    So 'tis the strongest of the three;
    Nay, of such forceful tyranny
      'Tis hard to attune it,
    Because 'twas never made to agree
      To serve the unit:

    11

    Art will not picture it, its name
    In common talk is utter shame:
    And yet hath Reason learn'd to tame
      Its conflagration
    Into a sacramental flame
      Of consecration.

    12

    Those hundred thousand years, ah me!
    Of budding soul! What slow degree,
    With aim so dim, so true! We see,
      Now that we know them,
    Our humble cave-folk ancestry,
      How much we owe them:

    13

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight DramasBridges, Robert

General

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

Bridges, Robert

English poetry

This only, that in weeding out my shelves,
    In fatherly regard for babes upgrown,
    Until they learn to garden for themselves,
    Much as I like to keep my sets entire,
    When I came out to you I had just thrown
    Three of his precious works behind the fire.


    14

    TO ROBERT BURNS

    AN EPISTLE ON INSTINCT

    1

    Thou art a poet, Robbie Burns,
    Master of words and witty turns,
    Of lilting songs and merry yarns,
      Drinking and kissing:
    There's much in all thy small concerns,
      But more that's missing.

    2

    The wisdom of thy common sense,
    Thy honest hate of vain pretence,
    Thy love and wide benevolence
      Full often lead thee
    Where feeling is its own defence;
      Yet while I read thee,

    3

    It seems but chance that all our race
    Trod not the path of thy disgrace,
    And, living freely to embrace
      The moment's pleasure,
    Snatch'd not a kiss of Nature's face
      For all her treasure.

    4

    The feelings soft, the spirits gay
    Entice on such a flowery way,
    And sovran youth in high heyday
      Hath such a fashion
    To glorify the bragging sway
      Of sensual passion.

    5

    But rakel Chance and Fortune blind
    Had not the power:--Eternal Mind
    Led man upon a way design'd,
      By strait selection
    Of pleasurable ways, to find
      Severe perfection.

    6

    For Nature did not idly spend
    Pleasure: she ruled it should attend
    On every act that doth amend
      Our life's condition:
    'Tis therefore not well-being's end,
      But its fruition.

    7

    Beasts that inherited delight
    In what promoted health or might,
    Survived their cousins in the fight:
      If some--like Adam--
    Prefer'd the wrong tree to the right,
      The devil had 'em.

    8

    So when man's Reason took the reins,
    She found that she was saved her pains;
    She had but to approve the gains
      Of agelong inscience,
    And spin it fresh into her brains
      As moral conscience.

    9

    But Instinct in the beasts that live
    Is of three kinds; (Nature did give
    To man three shakings in her sieve)--
      The first is Racial,
    The second Self-preservative,
      The third is Social.

    10

    Without the first no race could be,
    So 'tis the strongest of the three;
    Nay, of such forceful tyranny
      'Tis hard to attune it,
    Because 'twas never made to agree
      To serve the unit:

    11

    Art will not picture it, its name
    In common talk is utter shame:
    And yet hath Reason learn'd to tame
      Its conflagration
    Into a sacramental flame
      Of consecration.

    12

    Those hundred thousand years, ah me!
    Of budding soul! What slow degree,
    With aim so dim, so true! We see,
      Now that we know them,
    Our humble cave-folk ancestry,
      How much we owe them:

    13

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

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