The _Songs of Seven_ will be read and treasured as long as there are women in the world to be loved, and men in the world to love them.

My especial favorite in the volume was the poem _Divided_. Never have I seen more exquisite kinship with nature, or more delicate and tender feeling. Where is there so beautiful a picture as this?

"An empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of fox-glove, yellow of broom; We two among them, wading together, Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

"Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, Crowds of gra.s.shoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

"We two walk till the purple dieth, And short, dry gra.s.s under foot is brown; But one little streak at a distance lieth Green like a ribbon to prank the down.

"Over the gra.s.s we stepped into it, And G.o.d He knoweth how blithe we were!

Never a voice to bid us eschew it; Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

"A shady freshness, chafers whirring, A little piping of leaf-hid birds; A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, A cloud to the eastward, snowy as curds.

"Bare, gla.s.sy slopes, where kids are tethered; Round valleys like nests all ferny lined; Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

"Glitters the dew and shines the river, Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever, And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

"And yet I know past all doubting, truly-- And knowledge greater than grief can dim-- I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- Yea, better--e'en better than I love him.

"And as I walk by the vast calm river, The awful river so dread to see, I say, 'Thy breadth and thy depth forever Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.'"

In what choice but simple language we are thus told that two loving hearts cannot be divided.

Years went by, and I was at last to see the author of the poems I had loved in girlhood. I had wondered how she looked, what was her manner, and what were her surroundings.

In Kensington, a suburb of London, in a two-story-and-a-half stone house, cream-colored, lives Jean Ingelow. Tasteful grounds are in front of the home, and in the rear a large lawn bordered with many flowers, and conservatories; a real English garden, soft as velvet, and fragrant as new-mown hay. The house is fit for a poet; roomy, cheerful, and filled with flowers. One end of the large, double parlors seemed a bank of azalias and honeysuckles, while great bunches of yellow primrose and blue forget-me-not were on the tables and in the bay-windows.

But most interesting of all was the poet herself, in middle life, with fine, womanly face, friendly manner, and cultivated mind. For an hour we talked of many things in both countries. Miss Ingelow showed great familiarity with American literature and with our national questions.

While everything about her indicated deep love for poetry, and a keen sense of the beautiful, her conversation, fluent and admirable, showed her to be eminently practical and sensible, without a touch of sentimentality. Her first work in life seems to be the making of her two brothers happy in the home. She usually spends her forenoons in writing. She does her literary work thoroughly, keeping her productions a long time before they are put into print. As she is never in robust health, she gives little time to society, and pa.s.ses her winters in the South of France or Italy. A letter dated Feb. 25, from the Alps Maritime, at Cannes, says, "This lovely spot is full of flowers, birds, and b.u.t.terflies." Who that recalls her _Songs on the Voices of Birds_, the blackbird, and the nightingale, will not appreciate her happiness with such surroundings?

With great fondness for, and pride in, her own country, she has the most kindly feelings toward America and her people. She says in the preface of her novel, _Fated to be Free_, concerning this work and _Off the Skelligs_, "I am told that they are peculiar; and I feel that they must be so, for most stories of human life are, or at least aim at being, works of art--selections of interesting portions of life, and fitting incidents put together and presented as a picture is; and I have not aimed at producing a work of art at all, but a piece of nature." And then she goes on to explain her position to "her American friends," for, she says, "I am sure you more than deserve of me some efforts to please you. I seldom have an opportunity of saying how truly I think so."

Jean Ingelow's life has been a quiet but busy and earnest one. She was born in the quaint old city of Boston, England, in 1830. Her father was a well-to-do banker; her mother a cultivated woman of Scotch descent, from Aberdeenshire. Jean grew to womanhood in the midst of eleven brothers and sisters, without the fate of struggle and poverty, so common among the great.

She writes to a friend concerning her childhood:--

"As a child, I was very happy at times, and generally wondering at something.... I was uncommonly like other children.... I remember seeing a star, and that my mother told me of G.o.d who lived up there and made the star. This was on a summer evening. It was my first hearing of G.o.d, and made a great impression on my mind. I remember better than anything that certain ecstatic sensations of joy used to get hold of me, and that I used to creep into corners to think out my thoughts by myself. I was, however, extremely timid, and easily overawed by fear.

We had a lofty nursery with a bow-window that overlooked the river. My brother and I were constantly wondering at this river. The coming up of the tides, and the ships, and the jolly gangs of towers ragging them on with a monotonous song made a daily delight for us. The washing of the water, the sunshine upon it, and the reflections of the waves on our nursery ceiling supplied hours of talk to us, and days of pleasure. At this time, being three years old, ... I learned my letters.... I used to think a good deal, especially about the origin of things. People said often that they had been in this world, that house, that nursery, before I came. I thought everything must have begun when I did.... No doubt other children have such thoughts, but few remember them. Indeed, nothing is more remarkable among intelligent people than the recollections they retain of their early childhood. A few, as I do, remember it all. Many remember nothing whatever which occurred before they were five years old.... I have suffered much from a feeling of shyness and reserve, and I have not been able to do things by trying to do them. What comes to me comes of its own accord, and almost in spite of me; and I have hardly any power when verses are once written to make them any better.... There were no hardships in my youth, but care was bestowed on me and my brothers and sisters by a father and mother who were both cultivated people."

To another friend she writes: "I suppose I may take for granted that mine was the poetic temperament, and since there are no thrilling incidents to relate, you may think you should like to have my views as to what that means. I cannot tell you in an hour, or even in a day, for it means so much. I suppose it, of its absence or presence, to make far more difference between one person and another than any contrast of circ.u.mstances can do. The possessor does not have it for nothing. It isolates, particularly in childhood; it takes away some common blessings, but then it consoles for them all."

With this poetic temperament, that saw beauty in flower, and sky, and bird, that felt keenly all the sorrow and all the happiness of the world about her, that wrote of life rather than art, because to live rightly was the whole problem of human existence, with this poetic temperament, the girl grew to womanhood in the city bordering on the sea.

Boston, at the mouth of the Witham, was once a famous seaport, the rival of London in commercial prosperity, in the thirteenth century.

It was the site of the famous monastery of St. Botolph, built by a pious monk in 657. The town which grew up around it was called Botolph's town, contracted finally to Boston. From this town Reverend John Cotton came to America, and gave the name to the capital of Ma.s.sachusetts, in which he settled. The present famous old church of St. Botolph was founded in 1309, having a bell-tower three hundred feet high, which supports a lantern visible at sea for forty miles.

The surrounding country is made up largely of marshes reclaimed from the sea, which are called fens, and slightly elevated tracts of land called moors. Here Jean Ingelow studied the green meadows and the ever-changing ocean.

Her first book, _A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings_, was published in 1850, when she was twenty, and a novel, _Allerton and Dreux_, in 1851; nine years later her _Tales of Orris_. But her fame came at thirty-three, when her first full book of _Poems_ was published in 1863. This was dedicated to a much loved brother, George K. Ingelow:--

"YOUR LOVING SISTER OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORT WITH YOUR NAME."

The press everywhere gave flattering notices. A new singer had come; not one whose life had been spent in the study of Greek roots, simply, but one who had studied nature and humanity. She had a message to give the world, and she gave it well. It was a message of good cheer, of earnest purpose, of contentment and hope.

"What though unmarked the happy workman toil, And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod?

It is enough, for sacred is the soil, Dear are the hills of G.o.d.

"Far better in its place the lowliest bird Should sing aright to him the lowliest song, Than that a seraph strayed should take the word And sing his glory wrong."

"But like a river, blest where'er it flows, Be still receiving while it still bestows."

"That life Goes best with those who take it best.

--it is well For us to be as happy as we can!"

"Work is its own best earthly meed, Else have we none more than the sea-born throng Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar."

The London press said: "Miss Ingelow's new volume exhibits abundant evidence that time, study, and devotion to her vocation have both elevated and welcomed the powers of the most gifted poetess we possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide Proctor sing no more on earth. Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the Arcadia of England at present, having given birth to Mr. Tennyson and our present Lady Laureate."

The press of America was not less cordial. "Except Mrs. Browning, Jean Ingelow is first among the women whom the world calls poets," said the _Independent_.

The songs touched the popular heart, and some, set to music, were sung at numberless firesides. Who has not heard the _Sailing beyond Seas?_

"Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurled; I said, 'I will sail to my love this night At the other side of the world.'

I stepped aboard,--we sailed so fast,-- The sun shot up from the bourne; But a dove that perched upon the mast Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

O fair dove! O fond dove!

And dove with the white breast, Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.

"My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet.

Methought he said, 'In this fair land, O, is it thus we meet?

Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place,--no part,-- No dwelling more by sea or sh.o.r.e!

But only in thy heart!'

O fair dove! O fond dove!

Till night rose over the bourne, The dove on the mast as we sailed past, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn."

Edmund Clarence Stedman, one of the ablest and fairest among American critics, says: "As the voice of Mrs. Browning grew silent, the songs of Miss Ingelow began, and had instant and merited popularity. They sprang up suddenly and tunefully as skylarks from the daisy-spangled, hawthorn-bordered meadows of old England, with a blitheness long unknown, and in their idyllic underflights moved with the tenderest currents of human life. Miss Ingelow may be termed an idyllic lyrist, her lyrical pieces having always much idyllic beauty. _High Tide, Winstanley, Songs of Seven, and the Long White Seam_ are lyrical treasures, and the author especially may be said to evince that sincerity which is poetry's most enduring warrant."

_Winstanley_ is especially full of pathos and action. We watch this heroic man as he builds the lighthouse on the Eddystone rocks:--