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

'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 orchard, the sky, The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under.?But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I?Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder.?He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee?That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low--?'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see?And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he,?But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'-- And we ran hand