October 23, 1844

Britannica's article on Robert Bridges (October 23, 1844 to April 21, 1930)  is short, which is a bit surprising since he was Poet Laureate of Britain. They summarize his significance as an:

English poet noted for his technical mastery of prosody and for his sponsorship of the poetry of his friend Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Born of a prosperous landed family, Bridges went to Eton College and then to Oxford, where he met Hopkins. His edition of Hopkins’ poetry that appeared in 1916 rescued it from obscurity.

From 1869 until 1882 Bridges worked as a medical student and physician in London hospitals. In 1884 he married Mary Monica Waterhouse, and he spent the rest of his life in virtually unbroken domestic seclusion, first at Yattendon, Berkshire, then at Boar’s Hill, devoting himself almost religiously to poetry, contemplation, and the study of prosody. Although he published several long poems and poetic dramas, his reputation rests upon the lyrics collected in Shorter Poems (1890, 1894). New Verse (1925) contains experiments using a metre based on syllables rather than accents. He used this form for his long philosophical poem The Testament of Beauty, published on his 85th birthday. Bridges was poet laureate from 1913 until his death.


We should quote from  his poetry, and I picked some lines from "The Growth of Love," to give a glimpse of his skill, and the form certain concerns took in the late 19th century. The lines address heroes from English history.


For beauty being the best of all we know
Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims
Of nature, .....
.....
This world is unto God a work of art,
Of which the unaccomplish'd heavenly plan
Is hid in life within the creature's heart,
And for perfection looketh unto man.
......

O these be noble men that hide their graces,
True England's blood, her ancient glory's stay,
By tales of fame diverted on their way
Home from the rule of oriental races.


Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyes
And motion delicate, but swift to fire
For honour, passionate where duty lies,
......

Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,
Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;
And that your names, remember'd day and night,
.....

Now ye are starry names, above the storm
And war of Time and nature's endless wrong
Ye flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,
Wing'd with bright music and melodious song,—
.......


I excerpted a whole lot; if you catch the real grace in these lines, you will want to look at the original poetry.


Robert Bridges is actually interesting for the life he chose, and so we present also another portrait of this writer:

....He was born in 1844 into a wealthy family of the Kentish gentry, and as such he had no need of ever living by his pen. He loved poetry but studied medicine, believing that a physician’s practice would ground his literary efforts in what a platitudinous friend would later call “a knowledge of men.” He intended to retire at the age of forty to a life of writing; but he found after all that a little knowledge of men goes a long way; and following a serious illness he decided to pack in his doctor’s kit ahead of schedule. Raised as he had been among a tribe of rentiers whose arbitrary privilege was dignified by time and the speciousness of heraldry, he had a certain grandeur of manner, which his success as a college oarsman had only reinforced. Physically imposing, he was in his later years likened to Olympian Zeus, with white luxuriance of beard, and fingernails that had been hardened into talons by his unwillingness to bathe in water that was anything but cold. If he seemed imperious from a distance, he was among his friends good-natured, frank, and easy: his lordliness remained confined to the domain of literature, where it was ironized by the almost total apathy with which his work was publicly received.

The possibilities of this kind of  perspective, wherein a man can live according to his true nature, are much rarer now, but we should not forget they exist.