Bin full of floating bells, sayth shee, That ring the tune of Enderby. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST THE OF LINCOLNSHIRE. (1571.) HE 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!" Men say it was a stolen tide; 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 naught 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, Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadow 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 alle the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I hearde afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er that grassy sea Came down that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; To where the goodly vessels lie, 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. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, Floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, Swift as an arrow, sharp and strong, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde: "And why should this thing be? Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne; But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main; He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again: "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The olde sea wall," he cried, "is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother," straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, To right, to left, "Ho, Enderby!" And uppe the Lindis raging sped. And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came down with ruin and rout; Then beaten foam flew round about; Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at our feet; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sat 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 yet the ruddy beacon glowed, 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 me; I shall never hear her more From the meads where melick groweth, I shall never see her more 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 Lightfoot, rise and follow; From your clovers lift the head; WAKING suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat listening. 'Florence asked him what he thought he heard. "The "I want to know what it says," he answered, looking steadily in her face. sea, Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?" She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves. 66 66 Yes, yes," he said. "But I know that they are always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?" He rose up looking eagerly at the horizon. She told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he didn't mean that; he meant farther away-farther away! Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off, to try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying; and would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region, far away. Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. "How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!" Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank! He put his hands together, as he had been used to do, at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. "Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school, is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!" The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion-Death! Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean. CHARLES DICKENS. T THE DISAPPOINTED. HERE are songs enough for the hero, For those who missed their aim. I sing with a tearful cadence For one who stands in the dark, Who falls with his strength exhausted For the hearts that break in silence There are songs enough for the lovers For those whose spirit comrades Who barely lost the race. For the Plan would be imperfect ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. THE APPLES ARE RIPE IN THE HE apples are ripe in the orchard, TH The work of the reaper is done, A woman is kneeling beside him, And far from over the distance Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper: And we give our prayers to thee!" The rosebuds fringe the door, The pink-white blossoms pour. But the grandsire's chair is empty, And a pallid tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone, WILLIAM WINTER. MISSHAPEN LIVES. (From "Mr. Gilfil's Love-Story.") T is with men as with trees; if you lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some odd excresence; and what might have been a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding into plenteous beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb is withered. MARIAN EVANS CROSS. (George Ellot.") |