I
MR. Bridges's new volume of poems (the first that he has published since he became Poet Laureate) must be read for what it is, the work of a man seventy-five years of age. This statement is not made as an excuse: there are weak—occasional and patriotic—poems in the book, but some also which are beautiful additions to his canon. But some of his critics, so inadequate is still the recognition of what he has done, have treated the book as though his claim to be a great poet rested partly upon it, failing to read it, as they should, in the light of all that has gone before it. Properly regarded, it awakes not disappointment, but wonder that a poet so old should still sometimes have the genuine impulse, should still keep his spirit fresh, and should still be capable of ingenious and fruitful experiments in technique—experiments moreover in which the content is never subordinated to the form, however exacting and interesting the form may be. October, Noel, Our Lady, Flycatchers, The West Front, Trafalgar Square, and Fortunatus Nimium are all poems that any man might be proud to write in his prime; and beyond these there is the delicious invention of The Flowering Tree:
What Fairy fann'd my dreams
while I slept in the sun?
As if a flowering tree
were standing over me:
Its young stem strong and lithe
went branching overhead,
And willowy sprays around
fell tasselling to the ground
All with wild blossom gay
as is the cherry in May ...
The sunlight was enmesh'd
in the shifting splendour
And I saw through on high
to soft lakes of blue sky:...
So I slept enchanted
under my loving tree
Till from his late resting
the sweet songster of night,
Rousing, awakened me:
Then! this—the birdis note—
Was the voice of thy throat
which thou gav'st me to kiss.
The occasion may suitably be seized to make a few notes on Mr. Bridges's shorter—never mind the title and the word "lyrical"—poems as a whole.