Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II. | Page 9

lost and gone. Ay, let them chide
These. Yet I chide not.
That which I have done
Was rightly done; and what thereon befell

Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do
Again.
I will be brief. The days drag on,
My soul forebodes her death, my
lonely age.
Once I despondent in the moaning wood
Look out, and
lo a caravel at sea,
A man that climbs the rock, and presently
The

Spaniard!
I did greet him, proud no more.
He had braved durance, as I knew, ay
death,
To land on th' Island soil. In broken words
Of English he did
ask me how she fared.
Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund

My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he,
To talk with her, and all his
mind to speak;
I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy,
But she is
dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he,
'So be she liveth,' and he moved me
yet
For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death,
What thou
wilt, say.'
Soon made we Rosamund
Aware, she lying on the settle, wan
As a
lily in the shade, and while she not
Believed for marvelling, comes he
roundly in,
The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile,
One
look of ruth upon her small pale face,
All slowly as with
unaccustom'd mouth,
Betakes him to that English he hath conned,

Setting the words out plain:
'Child! Rosamund!
Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man.

By all the saints will I be good to thee.
Come.'
Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay.
They love us, but
our love is not their life.
For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund.

Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile.
(The Spaniard
reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith,
And bore in 's bosom forth my
golden sheaf.)
She loved her father and her mother well,
But loved
the Spaniard better. It was sad
To part, but she did part; and it was far

To go, but she did go. The priest was brought,
The ring was bless'd
that bound my Rosamund,
She sailed, and I shall never see her more.
One soweth and another reapeth. Ay,
Too true! too true!
ECHO AND THE FERRY.
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;
He looked at me

pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood.
They had told us to play in
the orchard (and I only seven!
A small guest at the farm); but he said,
'Oh, a girl was no good!' So he whistled and went, he went over the
stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven!

At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out.
The
pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about, And
they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven?
I thought so. Yes,
everyone else was eleven--eleven!
So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,
And all the
white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd; And under and
over the branches those little birds twitter'd, While hanging head
downwards they scolded because I was seven. A pity. A very great pity.
One should be eleven.
But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet,
And I saw
a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old.
Then I knew! for I peeped,
and I felt it was right they should scold! Eggs small and eggs many. For
gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else--oh, how
softly!--came after, came after With laughter--with laughter came after.
And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call,
That soon
very tired sank low with a mystical fall.
But this was the
country--perhaps it was close under heaven; Oh, nothing so likely; the
voice might have come from it even. I knew about heaven. But this was
the country, of this
Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings
not at all. Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver:
She
peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, Then
flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver. And I
waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss.
--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper
of leaves, and a humming all over the tall
White branches, a
humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- A little low wall--and
looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village,
and then the sweet river Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go

from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard
her long flow, And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very
soft--very low. 'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth
the river, 'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river.
I dreamed of the country that night, of the