We watched it glide from the silver sands, | A scar, brought from some well-won field, And all our sunshine grew strangely Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; We We only know that their barks no more They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch On slumb'rous wings the vulture held Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's there While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. Regave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped: her head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene. JEAN INGELOW. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soon be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF Againe I hear the Lindis flow, LINCOLNSHIRE. Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire it seemeth me Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune 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. The swannerds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby.' |