The Poetical Works of Jean Ingelow: Including the Shepherd Lady and Other Poems

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Lovell, 1863 - 520 ˹
 

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˹ 113 - I looked without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main : He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
˹ 112 - Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; Quit...
˹ 112 - 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.
˹ 113 - Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!
˹ 115 - I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling. I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!
˹ 111 - THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower; The ringers ran by two, by three: "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers pull your best,
˹ 111 - 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!
˹ 114 - With that he cried and beat his breast ; For, lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud ; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.
˹ 127 - You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. H
˹ 111 - 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 naught of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

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