perhaps hear nothing very surprising if you were to enquire about them in the neighborhoods where they dwelt." The London press said of Miss Ingelow's book: "The new volume exhibits abundant evidence that time, study, and devotion to her vocation have both elevated and welcomed the powers of the most gifted poetess we possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide Proctor sing no more on earth. Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the Arcadia of England at present, having given birth to Mr. Tennyson and our present Lady Laureate." Our most eminent American critic said: "The songs of Miss Ingelow sprang up suddenly and tunefully as skylarks from the daisy-spangled, hawthorn-bordered meadows of old England, with a blitheness long unknown, and in their idyllic underflights moved with the tenderest currents of human life. She may be termed an idyllic lyrist, her lyrical pieces having always much idyllic beauty. "High Tide," "Winstanley," "Songs of Seven," and the "Long White Seam are lyrical treasures, and the author especially may be said to evince that sincerity which is poetry's most enduring warrant." The "Songs of Seven" though not an especial favorite with Jean Ingelow herself, will always be a favorite with the world, as long as love exists. "Divided" is a poem of great beauty and strength, - a poem which sings itself — imaginative, delicate, yet rich in feeling. "Sailing beyond Seas," which has been set to music, is a piece of music in study. Winstanley" is full of pathos and action. In 1864, a year after the "Poems" were published, "Studies for Stories" appeared,-five stories told in simple and clear language. "Stories told to a Child" was published in 1865; "A Story of Doom, and other Poems" in 1868; Mopsa the Fairy," an exquisite story, in 1869, and since that time "A Sister's Byehours," "Off the Skelligs" in 1872, Fated to be Free" in 1875, "Sarah de Berenger" in 1879, "Don John" in 1881, and "Poems of the Old Days and the New." Her books have had a large sale both here and in Europe. It is stated that one hundred thousand of her poems have been sold in this country, and half that number of her prose works. S. K. B. 66 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'” And rearing Lindis backward pressed Flung uppe her weltering walls again. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Beiore it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, O come in life, or come in death! O lost my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. To manye more than myne and mee: I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, And made his married love a sacred thing: For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, Find the lost Eden in their love to you. REGRET. O THAT Word REGRET! There have been nights and morns when we have sighed, "Let us alone, Regret! We are content To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes; They are poor O for a life that shall not be refused To see the lost things found, and waste things used. WISHING. WHEN I reflect how little I have done, Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it No, not to do, as Eustace on the day He left fair Calais to her weeping fitNo, not to be,- Columbus, waked from sleep When his new world rose from the charmèd deep. |