Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relics, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571). BY JEAN INGELOW. HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; “Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best!" quoth he. Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells! 66 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 flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 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 My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 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." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, |