Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover; You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, And hangeth her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow!

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head, "The child is a woman--the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story: the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it!

Such as I wish it to be.

JEAN INGELOW.

_The Long White Seam_

As I came round the harbor buoy, The lights began to gleam, No wave the land-locked harbor stirred, The crags were white as cream; And I marked my love by candlelight Sewing her long white seam.

It's aye sewing ash.o.r.e, my dear, Watch and steer at sea, It's reef and furl, and haul the line, Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door; Oh sweetly my love sings!

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, My soul to meet it springs, As the shining water leaped of old When stirred by angel wings.

Aye longing to list anew, Awake and in my dream, But never a song she sang like this, Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, That brought me in to thee, And peace drop down on that low roof, For the sight that I did see, And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear, All for the love of me.

For O, for O, with brows bent low, By the flickering candle's gleam, Her wedding gown it was she wrought, Sewing the long white seam.

JEAN INGELOW.

_Hannah Binding Shoes_

Poor lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes!

Faded, wrinkled, Sitting, st.i.tching, in a mournful muse.

Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree;-- Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor Pa.s.sing, nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, "Is there from the fishers any news?"

Oh, her heart's adrift with one On an endless voyage gone;-- Night and morning, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues.

May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so!

For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is pa.s.sing; 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes; Hannah shudders, For the mild south-wester mischief brews.

Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound a schooner sped; Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November: Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoa.r.s.ely: "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben?"

Old with watching, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters Bleak and drear the ragged sh.o.r.e she views, Twenty seasons!

Never one has brought her any news, Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-- Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

_Lord Ullin's Daughter_

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?"

"O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His hors.e.m.e.n hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover!"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:--

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, O! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal sh.o.r.e,-- His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the sh.o.r.e, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_The King of Denmark's Ride_

Word was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring (Oh! ride as if you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

Thirty n.o.bles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were stuck in the foaming flank, Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened and girths were burst; But, ride as they would, the king rode first, For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His n.o.bles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying.

The king looked back at that faithful child, Wan was the face that answering smiled.

They pa.s.sed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped, and only the king rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn, (Silence!) No answer came, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing; The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride!