Read Ebook: Poems by Jean Ingelow In Two Volumes Volume II. by Ingelow Jean

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Many were captured fighting, many sank. This news they brought returned perforce, and left The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch The river mouth, till Howard, his new store Gathered, encounter coveting, once more Made after them with Drake. And lo! the wind Got up to help us. He yet flying north made all his wake To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen.

But now the counsel came, 'Every man home, For after Scotland rounded, when he curves Southward, and all the batter'd armament, What hinders on our undefended coast To land where'er he listeth? Every man Home.' And we mounted and did open forth Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, And rumour met us flying, filtering Down through the border. News of wicked joy, The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in To their undoing; while a treacherous crew Let the storm work upon their lives its will, Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, Who dealt with them according to their wont.

In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields-- That I should sigh to think it! There, no more.

Being right weary I betook me straight To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns Daunted the country in the moonless night, Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream And took my fill of rest. A voice, a touch, 'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship! I have been down the beach. O pitiful! A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, And none to guide our people. Wake.' Then I Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; In the windy pother seas came in like smoke That blew among the trees as fine small rain, And then the broken water sun-besprent Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast A caravel, a pinnace that methought To some great ship had longed; her hap alone Of all that multitude it was to drive Between this land of England her right foe, And that most cruel, where no drop of water mote they drink For love of God nor love of gold. I rose And hasted; I was soon among the folk, But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone In grass, and women served them bread and mead, Other the sea laid decently alone Ready for burial. And a litter stood In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, The govourner or the captain as it seemed, Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, And epaulet and sword. They must have loved That man, for many had died to bring him in, Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. In one--but how I know not--brought they him, And he was laid upon a folded flag, Many times doubled for his greater ease, That was our thought--and we made signs to them He should have sepulture. But when they knew They must needs leave him, for some marched them off For more safe custody, they made great moan.

After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, 'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then, 'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, And left us two, that by the litter stayed, Looking on one another, and we looked , and yet looked on. Then would he have me know the meet was fixed For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. What other could be done? I had him home. Men on his litter bare him, set him down In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall.

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds Of that great ensign covered store of gold, Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, And other gear. I locked it for my part Into an armoury, and that fair flag Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die Under his country's colours; he was brave, His deadly wound to that doth testify.

And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, And he, reviving, with a sob looked up And set on her the midnight of his eyes.

Then she, in act to place the burial gift Bending above him, and her flaxen hair Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright Comely and tall, her innocent fair face Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, But say an Av? first for him with me.'

Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, Till as I think for wonder at them, more Than for his proper strength, he could not die.

So in obedient wise my daughter risen, And going, let a smile of comforting cheer Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her For many a night and day that he beheld.

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, Her women aiding at their best. And he 'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, And when he whisper'd any word I knew, If I was present, for to pleasure him, Then made I repetition of the same. 'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' 'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made Against the Moors and their Mahometry, And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, Thy city. A fair city Cordova.'

Then after many days, while his wound healed, He with abundant seemly sign set forth His thanks, but as for language had we none, And oft he strove and failed to let us know Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, 'So please you, madam, show the enemy A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch And give him that same book my father found Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, He needs must know them.' 'Peace, thou pretty fool! Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?' Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick, The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, 'But I did think 't were easy to let show How both the Psalters are of meaning like; If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.'

Then said I 'The girl shall try,' And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, And he, admiring at her, all his face Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, So innocent holy she did look, so grave Her pitiful eyes. She sat beside his bed, He covered with the ensign yet; and took And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak Her English words, but gazing was enough For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, And not perceive her meaning till she touched His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word.

Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! Before she left him, she had learned his name Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care Made night and day uneasy--Cordova, There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined Or rued the galling yoke of slavery.

Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, When turning she retired, and his black eyes, That hunger'd after her, did follow on; And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more, Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.'

O, I would make short work of this. The wound Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, And then about his chamber walk at ease.

Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, And that same trading vessel beating up The Irish Channel at my will, that same I charter'd for to serve me in the war, Next was I minded should mine enemy Deliver to his father, and his land. Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, Behold her rocking; and I hasted down And left him waiting in the house. Woe 's me! All being ready speed I home, and lo My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. I needs must think how in the deep alcove Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, For I did see her thus no more. She held Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read Till he would stop her at the needed word. 'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, 'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, Taking no heed of me, no heed at all.

Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, And make denial of it, yet more blue And fair of favour afterward, so they. The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld, Come home, a token hung about her neck, Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale.

And all that day went like another day, Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart; Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth Upon an alien man, mine enemy, Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, This likes me very well. My most dear child, Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.'

Stealeth a darker day within my hall, A winter day of wind and driving foam. They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, More than one watching of a moon that wanes, Make chronicle of change. A parlous change When he looks back to that same moon at full.

Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, Though never she made moan. I saw the rings Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given My land, my name to have her as of old. Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, And mournfuller by much, her mother dear Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought 'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; A token she was true e'en to the end. What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him Under my roof in troublous times, he took, And to content her on this errand went, While she as done with earth did wait the end.

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 ; 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.

'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;-- Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not , Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair.

Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on? Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!' 'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night, My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, Comes after--with laughter comes after.

PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING.

And can this be my own world? 'Tis all gold and snow, Save where scarlet waves are hurled Down yon gulf below. 'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, City, mead, and shore, For he that hath his own world Hath many worlds more.

SLEEP AND TIME.

"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out; Wake!" said the knight, "be quick! For high street, bye street, over the town They fight with poker and stick." Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'er In all my bailliewick." What said the old clock in the tower? "Tick, tick, tick!"

"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on; Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick! The meats are set, the guests are coming, The fiddler waxing his stick." She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waiting To see thy face is sick." What said the new clock in her bower? "Tick, tick, tick!"

BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES.

The dove laid some little sticks, Then began to coo; The gnat took his trumpet up To play the day through; The pie chattered soft and long-- But that she always does; The bee did all he had to do, And only said, "Buzz."

THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG.

My good man--he's an old, old man-- And my good man got a fall, To buy me a bargain so fast he ran When he heard the gypsies call: "Buy, buy brushes, Baskets wrought o' rushes. Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, Buy, dames all."

A WOOING SONG.

My fair lady's a dear, dear lady-- I walked by her side to woo. In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, She answered, "I love not you, John, John Brady," Quoth my dear lady, "Pray now, pray now, go your way now, Do, John, do!"

Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, For I passed another day; While making her moan, she sat all alone, And thus, and thus did she say: "John, John Brady," Quoth my dear lady, "Do now, do now, once more woo now. Pray, John, pray!"

A COURTING SONG.

"Master," quoth the auld hound "Where will ye go?" "Over moss, over muir, To court my new jo." "Master, though the night be merk, I'se follow through the snow.

"Court her, master, court her, So shall ye do weel; But and ben she'll guide the house, I'se get milk and meal. Ye'se get lilting while she sits With her rock and reel."

"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue, And een that look down, A gold girdle for her waist, And a purple gown. She has a good word forbye Fra a' folk in the town."

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD.

In the night she told a story, In the night and all night through, While the moon was in her glory, And the branches dropped with dew.

'Twas my life she told, and round it Rose the years as from a deep; In the world's great heart she found it, Cradled like a child asleep.

Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow, Lulling tears so mystic sweet; Then she wove my last to-morrow, And her web lay at my feet.

Of my life she made the story: I must weep--so soon 'twas told! But your name did lend it glory, And your love its thread of gold!

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