Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 7

a scarlet feather Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down.
When I looked, I dared not sigh:--In the light of God's splendor, With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I??But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender, Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky.
O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble!?On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek;?I was tired of my sorrow--O so faint, for it was double?In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak!
And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding, And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied;?But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading Across the bounds of waking life to the other side.
And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning, And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on; And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone.
Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water-- A question as I took it, for soon an answer came?From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then--who's to blame?"
I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken: A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea; Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me.
I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him; "He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun;?Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him: Ay, the old man was a good man--and his work was done."
The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost.
I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply. "If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth, And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye."
And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping; And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, "What I said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart be long past hoping, Let 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