I pray you hear my song of a boat,

For it is but short :

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,

In river or port.

Long I look'd out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,

And I think, he sail'd to the heavenly shore,

For he came not back to me

A song of a nest:—

Ah me!

There was once a nest in a hollow:

Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim—
Vetches lean'd over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you

hear my song of a nest,

For it is not long :—

You shall never light, in a summer quest

The bushes among

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know

A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah! happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them: but when they were

grown

They spread out their wings to fly

O, one after one they flew away

Far up to the heavenly blue,

To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sail'd?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath fail'd?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be:

There is the home where my thoughts are sent,

The only home for me

Ah me!

Jean Ingelow.

66

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF

LINCOLNSHIRE.

(1571.)

HE old mayor climb'd the belfry tower,

66

The ringers ran by two, by three;

Pull, if ye never pull'd 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 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 crouch'd 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.

"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 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,

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.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple tower'd from out the greene;

And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds 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."