Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 8

it say of death,
'I know it,' or doubt on and break.
"Men must die--one dies by day, and near him moans his mother, They
dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: And one dies
about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, And the snows
give him a burial--and God loves them both.
"The first hath no advantage--it shall not soothe his slumber That a lock
of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;
For the last, he nothing
grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber, That in a golden mesh of
HIS callow eaglets sleep.
"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it, And the
lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too;
It was never kept a secret,
waters bring it and winds blow it, And he met it on the mountain--why
then make ado?"
With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, Lit
upon the hooded head, and it and all went down;
And they laughed as
they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter." And looked
across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town.
And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?"
And I thought,
"Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? I have dreamed as I
remember: give me time--I was reputed
Once to have a steady
courage--O, I fear 'tis gone!"
And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating
So he lies on the
mountain, hard by the eagles' brood;
I have had a dream this evening,

while the white and gold were fleeting, But I need not, need not tell
it--where would be the good?
"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? For the
ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. While a lonely
watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, That gives
what little light there is to a darksome hill?"
I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter,
But slowly in the
twilight I came to Cromer town.
What can wringing of the hands do
that which is ordained to alter? He had climbed, had climbed the
mountain, he would ne'er come down.
But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: O, to be a
wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed!
From my breast I'd give thee
burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; I would sit and sing thy
requiem on the mountain head.
Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee! O, to be
at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow,
Solemnly approach the
mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, And veil thy breast with
icicles, and thy brow with snow!
SUPPER AT THE MILL.
Mother.
Well, Frances.
Frances.
Well, good mother, how are you?
M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:
I think 'tis mostly
warm on market days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,

"Mother, go in and rest awhile."
F. Ay, do,
And stay to supper; put your basket down.
M. Why, now, it is not heavy?

F. Willie, man,
Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no!
Some call
good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as
firm and sweet
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all?
M. All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my
butter.
F. That he did.
M. And has your speckled hen brought off her brood?
F. Not yet; but that old duck I told you of,
She hatched eleven out of
twelve to-day.
Child. And, Granny, they're so yellow.
M. Ay, my lad,
Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair.
C. They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine.
M. To think of that!
F. Yes, Granny, only think!
Why, father means to sell them when
they're fat.
And put the money in the savings-bank,
And all against
our Willie goes to school:
But Willie would not touch them--no, not
he;
He knows that father would be angry else.
C. But I want one to play with--O, I want
A little yellow duck to take
to bed!
M. What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then?
F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile;
'Tis time I took up
Willie to his crib.
_[Exit FRANCES._

[Mother sings to the infant.]
Playing on the virginals,
Who but I? Sae glad, sae free,
Smelling
for all cordials,
The green mint and marjorie;
Set among the
budding broom,
Kingcup and daffodilly;
By my side I made him
room:
O love my Willie!
"Like me, love me, girl o' gowd,"
Sang he to my nimble strain;

Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed
Till my heartstrings rang again:
By
the broom, the bonny broom,
Kingcup and daffodilly,
In my heart I
made him room:
O love my Willie!
"Pipe