Poem by Robert Seymour Bridges

Shorter Poems. Book II. 4. Wooing

      I know not how I came,
    New on my knightly journey,
      To win the fairest dame
    That graced my maiden tourney.

      Chivalry’s lovely prize
    With all men’s gaze upon her,
      Why did she free her eyes
    On me, to do me honour?

      Ah! ne’er had I my mind
    With such high hope delighted,
      Had she not first inclined,
    And with her eyes invited.

      But never doubt I knew,
    Having their glance to cheer me,
      Until the day joy grew
    Too great, too sure, too near me.

      When hope a fear became,
    And passion, grown too tender,
      Now trembled at the shame
    Of a despised surrender;

      And where my love at first
    Saw kindness in her smiling,
      I read her pride, and cursed
    The arts of her beguiling.

      Till winning less than won,
    And liker wooed than wooing,
      Too late I turned undone
    Away from my undoing;

      And stood beside the door,
    Whereto she followed, making
      My hard leave-taking more
    Hard by her sweet leave-taking.

      Her speech would have betrayed
    Her thought, had mine been colder:
      Her eyes distress had made
    A lesser lover bolder.

      But no! Fond heart, distrust,
    Cried Wisdom, and consider:
      Go free, since go thou must;—
    And so farewell I bid her.

      And brisk upon my way
    I smote the stroke to sever,
      And should have lost that day
    My life’s delight for ever:

      But when I saw her start
    And turn aside and tremble;—
      Ah! she was true, her heart
    I knew did not dissemble.

1. Shorter Poems. Book I. 17. Triolet (All women born are so perverse)
2. Shorter Poems. Book II. 8. Spring. Ode I
3. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 25. “Say Who Is This with Silvered Hair”
4. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 6. April, 1885
5. Shorter Poems. Book I. 6. “Dear Lady, When Thou Frownest”

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