Reference > Anthologies > Warner, et al., eds. > The Library > Verse

C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire
By Jean Ingelow (1820–1897)

  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,” quoth he.
  “Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!        5
  Play 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        10
    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,        15
    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,        20
  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;        25
  Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
          Floweth, floweth,
  From the meads where melick groweth
    Faintly came her milking-song:—
  “Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling,        30
  “For the dews will soone be falling;
  Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
          Mellow, mellow;
  Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,        35
  Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
          Hollow, hollow;
  Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
    From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,        40
  Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
    Jetty, to the milking-shed.”
  If it be long, aye, long ago,
    When I beginne to think howe long,
  Againe I hear the Lindis flow,        45
    Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;
  And all the aire it seemeth mee
  Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
  That ring the tune of ‘Enderby.’
  Alle fresh the level pasture lay,        50
    And not a shadowe mote be seene,
  Save where full fyve good miles away
    The steeple towered from out the greene;
  And lo! the great bell farre and wide
  Was heard in all the country-side        55
  That Saturday at eventide.
  The swannerds where their sedges are
    Moved on in sunset’s golden breath,
  The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
    And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth;        60
  Till floating o’er the grassy sea
  Came downe that kyndly message free,
  The ‘Brides of Mavis Enderby.’
  Then some looked uppe into the sky,
    And all along where Lindis flows,        65
  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’!        70
  “For evil news from Mablethorpe
    Of pyrate galleys warping down,
  For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
    They have not spared to wake the towne;
  But while the west bin red to see,        75
  And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
  Why ring ‘The Brides of Enderby’?”
  I looked without, and lo! my sonne
    Came riding downe with might and main;
  He raised a shout as he drew on,        80
    Till all the welkin rang again,
      “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
  (A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath
  Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.)
  “The olde sea-wall (he cried) is downe,        85
    The rising tide comes on apace,
  And boats adrift in yonder towne
    Go sailing uppe the market-place.”
  He shook as one that looks on death:
  “God save you, mother!” straight he saith;        90
  “Where is my wife, Elizabeth?”
  “Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
    With her two bairns I marked her long;
  And ere yon bells beganne to play
    Afar I heard her milking song.”        95
  He looked across the grassy sea,
  To right, to left,—“Ho Enderby!”
  They rang ‘The Brides of Enderby’!
  With that he cried and beat his breast;
    For lo! along the river’s bed        100
  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.        105
  And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,
    Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
  Then madly at the eygre’s breast
    Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
  Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout—        110
  Then beaten foam flew round about—
  Then all the mighty floods were out.
  So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
    The heart had hardly time to beat,
  Before a shallow seething wave        115
    Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
  The feet had hardly time to flee
  Before it brake against the knee,
  And all the world was in the sea.
  Upon the roofe we sate that night,        120
    The noise of bells went sweeping by;
  I marked the lofty beacon light
    Stream from the church tower, red and high—
  A lurid mark and dread to see;
  And awesome bells they were to mee,        125
  That in the dark rang ‘Enderby.’
  They rang the sailor lads to guide,
    From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
  And I—my sonne was at my side,
    And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:        130
  And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
  “O come in life, or come in death!
  O lost! my love, Elizabeth.”
  And didst thou visit him no more?
    Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare!        135
  The waters laid thee at his doore,
    Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
  Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
  The lifted sun shone on thy face,
  Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.        140
  That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
    That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
  A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
    To manye more than myne and mee:
  But each will mourn his own (she saith),        145
  And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath
  Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.
    I shall never hear her more
    By the reedy Lindis shore,
    “Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!” calling,        150
    Ere the early dews be falling;
    I shall never hear her song,
    “Cusha, Cusha!” all along,
    Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
            Goeth, floweth;        155
    From the meads where melick groweth,
    When the water winding down
    Onward floweth to the town.
    I shall never see her more,
  Where the reeds and rushes quiver,        160
          Shiver, quiver,
  Stand beside the sobbing river,
  Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
      To the sandy lonesome shore;
  I shall never hear her calling,        165
  “Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
          Mellow, mellow;
  Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
  Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,        170
          Hollow, hollow;
    Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
          Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
    From your clovers lift the head;
  Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,        175
    Jetty, to the milking-shed.”

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