216

LETTICE WHITE.

'T is hard to feel oneself a fool!

With that same lass I went to school--
I then was great and wise;
She read upon an easier book,
And I-I never cared to look
Into her shy blue eyes.

And now I know they must be there,
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair
That will not raise their rim:
If maids be shy, he cures who can;
But if a man be shy-a man-
Why then the worse for him;

My mother cries, "For such a lad
A wife is easy to be had

And always to be found;
A finer scholar scarce can be,
And for a foot and leg," says she,
"He beats the country round!

"My handsome boy must stoop his head
To clear her door whom he would wed."
Weak praise, but fondly sung!

"O mother! scholars sometimes fail-
And what can foot and leg avail
To him that wants a tongue?”

When by her ironing-board I sit,
Her little sisters round me flit,

And bring me forth their store;
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,
And small sweet apples bright of hue
And crimson to the core,

But she abideth silent, fair,

All shaded by her flaxen hair
The blushes come and go;

I look, and I no more can speak
Than the red sun that on her cheek
Smiles as he lieth low.

Sometimes the roses by the latch
Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
Come sailing down like birds;

When from their drifts her board I clear,
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
The shyly uttered words.

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White
By daylight and by candlelight
When we two were apart.
Some better day come on apace,
And let me tell her face to face,
"Maiden, thou hast my heart."

How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored!
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White;
I'll e'en go sit again to-night

Beside her ironing-board!

J. Ingelow.

218

APPRENTICED.

APPRENTICED.

(OLD STYLE.)

"COME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot;

Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the

tree, O!

The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass;

Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with

me, O!"

"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel;

My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light

wax dim;

How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with

thee, O?"

"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong;

And O! had I but served the time that takes so long to

flee, O!

And thou, my lass, by morning's light, wast all in white, wast all in white;

And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and

thee, O!"

J. Ingelow.

THE LONG WHITE SEAM.

As I came round the harbour buoy,
The lights began to gleam,

No wave the land-locked harbour stirred,
The crags were white as cream;
And I marked my love by candlelight
Sewing her long white seam.

It's aye sewing ashore, 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;
O 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 harbour 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.

F. Ingelow.

220

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?