A NOTE UPON MR. BRIDGES. 83 
A lover of all literature, a lover of old music, emphatically a 
man of liberal culture and disciplined tastes, he appears to have 
a rare faculty for joy, finding it in all “ the things that are more 
excellent.” His two spring odes, the Invitation to the Country and 
the Repty, reveal his secret : the simple rural joys, fresh and 
innocent, or the town life of the scholar and the philosopher; he 
knows the heart of both, and can play the man in either part. 
A “ bower beside the silver Thames,” or a song by “ the celestial 
spirit of Henry Purcell ” ; the fall of the pure snow over 
London, and the pale sun “ standing by Paul’s high dome,” or 
the wind lashing down “ the delicate-ranked golden corn ” ; 
happy the man to whom all are alike dear and delightful ! In 
“The Voice of Nature” he declares his understanding of the 
multiform wisdom of Natura benigna. 
“ I stand on the cliff and watch the veiled sun paling 
A silver field afar in the mournful sea. 
The scourge of the surf, and plaintive gulls sailing 
At ease on the gale that smites the shuddering lea : 
Whose smile severe and chaste 
June never hath stirred to vanity, nor age defaced. 
In lofty thought strive, O spirit, for ever : 
In courage and strength pursue thine own endeavour. 
“Ah ! if it were only for thee, thou restless ocean 
Of waves that follow and roar, the sweep of the tides ; 
Wer’t only for thee, impetuous wind, whose motion 
Precipitate all o’errides, and turns, nor abides : 
For you sad birds and fair, 
Or only for thee, bleak cliff, erect in the air ; 
Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, 
O well should I understand the voice of Nature. 
“ But far away, I think, in the Thames valley. 
The silent river glides by flowery banks : 
And birds sing sweetly in branches that arch an alley 
Of cloistered trees, moss-grown in their ancient ranks : 
Where if a light air stray, 
’Tis laden with hum of bees and scent of may. 
Love and peace be thine, O spirit, for ever: 
Serve thy sweet desire : despise endeavour. 
“ And if it were only for thee, entrancW river. 
That scarce dost rock the lily on her airy stem. 
Or stir a wave to murmur, or a rush to quiver ; 
Wer’t but for the woods, and summer asleep in them : 
For you my bowers green. 
My hedges of rose and woodbine, with walks between. 
Then well could I read wisdom in every feature 
O well should I understand the voice of Nature.” 
Very winning are the poems of the river : clear, running 
water, water flowers and overhanging branches, have a fascina- 
tion for this poet. There are certain of these poems which 
seem made for Oxford men in an especial way : poems which 
recall to the sons of that “ dear city of youth and dream,” long 
hours of summer upon Cherwell and Isis. The enchanting 
loneliness, half sylvan and half of the water is given us here ; 
