Slike strani

Men say it was a stolen tyde

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

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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.

Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song.

Cusha! Cusha!” all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song

· Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers list your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed.”

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If it be long, ay, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.


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.'”

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

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Thy mother's tenderest words are said,

Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear,

She doth in nought accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,

To love - and then to lose.

Goeth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
* Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.”

APPRENTICED. “Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet

hoot, the owlet hoot; Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim be

hind the tree, O! The dropping thorn makes white the grass, 0

sweetest lass, and sweetest lass; Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the

croft with me, O!"

· My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her

reel, and drops her reel; My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can

be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim,

ere light wax dim; How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice

lad, with thee, O?"



To bear, to nurse, to rear,

To watch, and then to lose:
To see my bright ones disappear,

Drawn up like morning dews -
To bear, to nurse, to rear,

To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near

Among his own to choose.

“And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is

strong, and love is strong; And O! had I but served the time, that takes so

long to flee, O! And thou, my lass, my morning's light wast all in

white, wast all in white, And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me

and thee, 0."


To hear, to heed, to wed,

And with thy lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed,

Will let no longer smart.To hear, to heed, to wed,

This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said: • Mother, give me thy child.”

DAUGHTERS of Eve! your mother did not well:

She laid the apple in your father's hand, And we have read, O wonder! what befell-

The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand; He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, --

With her could die, but could not live alone.

O fond. O fool, and blind,

To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find,

My soul put by her fearsO fond, O fool, and blind,

God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind

Is hope for unknown years.

Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low,

Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell; For something better, than as gods to know,

That husband in that home left off to dwell: For this, till love be reconed, less than lore,

Shall man be first and best forevermore.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

Fair lot that maidens choose,

Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sake

The world's first hero died an uncrown'd king; But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 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.


I ask thee not to work, or sigh - play on,

From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred; The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have

stirred, And waved memorial grass of Marathon. Play, but be gentle, not as on that day

I saw thee running down the rims of doom With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they

lay Smothered in light and blue -- clasped to thy

breast; Bring rather to me in the firelit room A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.


Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe
The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish

O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go,

O'er sunken bravery of high carved decks.

In earlier days

eat Carthage suffered bale (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals); And reckless hands tore down the temple veil ;

And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls.

There have been nights and morns when we have

“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;
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep,
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard.
We did amiss when we did wish it gone
And over: sorrows humanize our race;
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world; •
And memory of things precious keepeth warm
The heart that once did hold them.

They are poor
That have lost nothing; they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woof
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
Where there are sombre colors. It is true
That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold,
We would not have it tarnish; let us turn
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web,
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know
That memory is possession.

When I remember something which I had,

But which is gone, and I must do without,
I sometimes wonder how I can be glad,

Even in cow slip time when hedges sprout;
It makes me sigh to think on it, - but yet
My days will not be better days, should I forget.

When I remember something promised me,

But which I never had, nor can have now,
Because the promiser we no more see

In countries that accord with mortal vow; When I remember this, I mourn, - but yet My happier days are not the days when I forget.

The Old World arts men suffered not to last,
Fiung down they trampled lie and sunk from

He lets wild forest for these ages past

Grow over the lost cities of the New.

O for a life that shall not be refused
To see the lost things found, and waste things



WHEN I reflect how little I have done,

And add to that how little I have seen, Then furthermore how little I have won

Of joy, or good, how little known, or been:

I long for other life more full, more keen, And yearn to change with such as well have run-

Yet reason mocks me- nay, the soul, I ween, Granted her choice would dare to change with none; No,- not to feel, as Blondel when his lay 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 charmed deep,


O Fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,

Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,

And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.

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