Much more in his true vein were the lines,
"Clear and Gentle Stream," and all the other verses in which, like a true
Etonian, he celebrates the beautiful Thames:

"There is a hill beside the silver Thames,
Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine,
And brilliant under foot with thousand gems
Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.
Straight trees in every place
Their thick tops interlace,
And pendent branches trail their foliage fine
Upon his watery face.

* * * * *

A reedy island guards the sacred bower
And hides it from the meadow, where in peace
The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,
Robbing the golden market of the bees.
And laden branches float
By banks of myosote;
And scented flag and golden fleur-de-lys
Delay the loitering boat."

I cannot say how often I have read that poem, and how delightfully it
carries the breath of our River through the London smoke. Nor less
welcome are the two poems on spring, the "Invitation to the Country," and
the "Reply." In these, besides their verbal beauty and their charming
pictures, is a manly philosophy of Life, which animates Mr. Bridges's
more important pieces--his "Prometheus the Firebringer," and his "Nero,"
a tragedy remarkable for the representation of Nero himself, the
luxurious human tiger. From "Prometheus" I make a short extract, to show
the quality of Mr. Bridges's blank verse:

"Nor is there any spirit on earth astir,
Nor 'neath the airy vault, nor yet beyond
In any dweller in far-reaching space
Nobler or dearer than the spirit of man:
That spirit which lives in each and will not die,
That wooeth beauty, and for all good things
Urgeth a voice, or still in passion sigheth,
And where he loveth, draweth the heart with him."

Mr. Bridges's latest book is his "Eros and Psyche" (Bell & Sons, who
publish the "Prometheus"). It is the old story very closely followed,
and beautifully retold, with a hundred memories of ancient poets: Homer,
Dante, Theocritus, as well as of Apuleius.

I have named Mr. Bridges here because his poems are probably all but
unknown to readers well acquainted with many other English writers of
late days. On them, especially on actual contemporaries or juniors in
age, it would be almost impertinent for me to speak to you; but, even at
that risk, I take the chance of directing you to the poetry