Ah me! and when forgotten and foregone We leave the learning of departed days, And cease the generations past to con

Their wisdom and their ways,

When fain to learn we lean into the dark-
And grope to feel the floor of the abyss;
Or find the secret boundary-lines which mark
Where soul and matter kiss-

Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak

With beating their bruised wings against the rim That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek The distant and the dim.

We pant, we strain like birds against their wires; Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond;And what avails, if still to our desires

Those far-off gulfs respond?

Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies
An outer distance when the first is hailed,
And still forever yawns before our eyes
An UTMOST-that is veiled.

Searching those edges of the universe,

We leave the central fields a fallow part; To feed the eye more precious things amerce, And starve the darkened heart.

Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock; One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod; One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock Shall move the seat of God.

A little way, a very little way

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind, And they are very sorry, so they say,Sorry for what they find.

But truth is sacred-ay, and must be told: There is a story long beloved of man; We must forego it, for it will not hold-Nature had no such plan.

And then, if "God hath said it," some should cry,
We have the story from the fountain-head:
Why, then, what better than the old reply,
The first "Yea HATH God said?"

The garden, O the garden, must it go,

Source of our hope and our most dear regret ? The ancient story, must it no more show How man may win it yet?

And all upon the Titan child's decree, The baby Science, born but yesterday, That in its rash unlearned infancy

With shells and stones at play,

And delving in the outworks of this world, And little crevices that it could reach, Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled Under an ancient beach.

And other waifs that lay to its young mind
Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie,
By gain whereof it could not fail to find
Much proof of ancientry.

Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast,
Terrible deeps, and old obscurities,
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed
In the primeval seas.

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been
Of truth not meant for man inheritor;
As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen
And not provided for.

Knowledge ordained to live! although the fate
Of much that went before it was-to die;
And be called ignorance by such as wait
Till the next drift comes by.

O marvellous credulity of man!

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know,

Or follow up the mighty Artisan
Unless He willed it so ?

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth
That of the Made he shall be found at fault,
And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth
By force or by assault?

But if He keeps not secret-if thine eyes
He openeth to His wondrous work of late-
Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies,
And have the grace to wait.

Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret,

Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, Because thou canst not reconcile as yet The worker and the word.

Either the worker did in ancient days
Give us the word, His tale of love and might;
And if in truth He gave it us, who says
He did not give it right?

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed
We know not if HE IS-by whom our years
Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth
lead,

And the unfathered spheres.

We sit unowned upon our burial sod,

And know not whence we come and whose we be,

Comfortless mourners for the mount of God,
The rocks of Calvary.

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope;

Despairing comforters, from age to age
Eowing the seeds of hope.

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us
Out of the slough where passed our unknown
youth;
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us

With sacred love of truth.

Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas. How wert thou bettered so, or more secure Thou, and thy destinies ?

And if thou searchest, and art made to fear
Facing of unread riddles dark and hard,
And mastering not their majesty austere,

Their meaning locked and barred:

How would it make the weight and wonder less,

If lifted from immortal shoulders down The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness, In realms without a crown!

And (if there were no God) were left to rue
Dominion of the air and of the fire;
Then if there be a God, "Let God be true,
And every man a liar."

But as for me, I do not speak as one

That is exempt; I am with life at feud; My heart reproacheth me, as there were none Of so small gratitude.

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine, And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt? That which I know, and that which I divine, Alas! have left thee out.

I have aspired to know the might of God, As if the story of His love was furled, Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod Of this redeemed world.

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep,
To grope for that abyss whence evil grew,
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep,
Hungry and desolate flew.

As if their legions did not one day crowd
The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to

see;

As if a sacred head had never bowed

In death for man-for me.

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings In that dark country where those evil ones Trail their unhallowed wings.

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee,

And didst Thou take to Heaven a human brow?

Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea?

Art Thou his kinsman now?

O God, O Kinsman loved, but not enough!
O Man, with eyes majestic after death,
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways
rough,

Whose lips drawn human breath!

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, By that one nature which doth hold us kin, By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost

shine

To draw us sinners in,

By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall,
By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree,
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall,
I pray Thee visit me.

617

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away,
Die ere the guest adored she entertain-
Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day
Should miss Thy heavenly reign.

Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold,
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light,
And cannot find their fold.

And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow,
Pathetic in its yearning-deign reply:

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou
Wouldst take from such as I?

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust, Are there no thorns that compass it about? Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust My hands to gather out?

Oh if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, It were a cure for doubt, regret, delayLet my lost pathway go-what aileth me?— There is a better way.

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 God.

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.

Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, Thou dost all earthly good by much excel; Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: My work-my work, farewell!

SUPPER AT THE MILL.

Mother. WELL, Frances.
Frances. Well, good mother, how are you?
M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's

F.

warm:

I think 't is mostly warm on market-days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,
"Mother, go in and rest awhile."
Ay, do,
And stay to supper; put your basket down.
M. Why, now, it is not heavy?
F.
Willie, man,
Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy? no;
Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet
As if 't was Christmas. So you sold it all.
M. All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my butter.

F. Not yet; but that old duck I told you of, She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. Child. And, Granny, they 're so yellow. M. Ay, my lad, Yellow as gold-yellow as Willie's hair. C. They're all mine, Granny, father says they 're mine.

M. To think of that! F

Yes, Granny, only think! Why father means to sell them when they 're fat, And put the money in the savings-bank, And all against our Willie goes to school: But Willie would not touch them-no, not he; He knows that father would be angry else.

C. But I want one to play with-oh, I want A little yellow duck to take to bed!

M. What would ye rob the poor old mother, then?

F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe a while;

'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib.

[Exit FRANCES.

[Mother sings to the infant.]

Playing on the virginals,

Who but I! Sae glad, sae free, Smelling for all cordials,

The green mint and marjorie;
Set among the budding broom,
Kingeup and daffodilly;

By my side I made him room:
O love my Willie!

"Like me, love me, girl o' gowd,"
Sang he to my nimble strain,
Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed

Till my heartstrings rang again;
By the broom, the bonny broom,
Kingcup and daffodilly;

In my heart I made him room:
O love my Willie !

"Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he;
"I must go, yet pipe and play;
Soon I'll come and ask of thee
For an answer yea or nay;
And I waited till the flocks
Panted in yon waters stilly,
And the corn stood in the shocks:
O love my Willie !

I thought first when thou didst come
I would wear the ring for thee,
But the year told out its sum,

Ere again thou sat'st by me;

Thou hadst naught to ask that day
By kingeup and daffodilly;

I said neither yea nor nay:

O love my Willie !

Enter GEORGE.

He's not so young, you know, by twenty years
As I am not so young by twenty years,
And I'm past sixty.

G.
Yet he 's hale and stout,
And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe;
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows,
And a pride, too.

M.

And well he may, my dear. G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm; He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, He almost wears our lives out with his noise Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep, What! you young villain, would you clench your fist

In father's curls? a dusty father, sure,
And you 're as clean as wax.

Ay, you may laugh,
But if you live a seven years more or so
These hands of yours will all be brown and
scratched

With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down

As many rat-holes as are round the mere;
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and

dirt,

or more,

Since I set eyes on you.

M. Ay, George, my dear, I reckon you've been busy: so have we. G. And how does father? M. He gets through his work, But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear;

Why the world's full of them, and so is heavenThey are not rare.

G. No, mother, not at all; But Hannah must not keep our Fanny longShe spoils her.

M. Ah! folks spoil their children now; When I was a young woman 't was not so:

We made our children fear us, made them work, Kept them in order.

G.

Eh, mother? M.

Were not proud of them

I set store by mine, 't is true, But then I had good cause. G. My lad, d' ye hear? Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud! She never spoilt your father-no, not she, Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, Nor to the doctor while she lay abed

Sick, and he crept up-stairs to share her broth. M. Well, well, you were my youngest; and, what's more,

Your father loved to hear you sing-he did, Although, good man, he could not tell one tune From the other.

F. No, he got his voice from you: Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. G. What must I sing? F.

The ballad of the man That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.

G. Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves;

But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in: Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some

She comforts all her mother's days,
And with her sweet obedient ways
She makes her labor light;
So sweet to hear, so fair to see!
Oh, she is much too good for me,
That lovely Lettice White!

'Tis hard to feel one's self 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 failAnd 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!

619

Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now?
No sooner do I stop than you look up.
What would you have your poor old father do?
'T was a brave song, long-winded, and not loud.
M. He heard the bacon sputter on the fork,
And heard his mother's step across the floor.
Where did you get that song 't is new to me?
G. I bought it of a pedlar.
M.
Did you so?
Well, you were always for the love-songs, George.
F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm,
And if you 'll pace and sing two minutes more
He needs must sleep-his eyes are full of sleep.
G. Do you sing, mother.
F.

Ay, good mother, do;
'Tis long since we have heard you.
M.
Like enough;
I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads

I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now.
What should I sing for?

G.
Why, to pleasure us.
Sing in the chimney-corner, where you sit.
And I'll pace gently with the little one.

[M. sings.]

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries,

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,
And a scarlet sun doth rise;

Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,
And the icy founts run free;
And the bergs begin to bow their heads,
And plunge, and sail in the sea.

Oh, my lost love, and my own, own love,
And my love that loved me so!

Is there never a chink in the world above
Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore;
I remember all that I said;

And now thou wilt hear me no more--no more
Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;

Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail,
And the end I could not know.
How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
Whom that day I held not dear?

How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain
With the faded bents o'erspread;

We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead;

We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, Where thy last farewell was said;

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead.

F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in; And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?

The supper's ready.

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.

(1571.)

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! Play all your changes, all your swells,

Ply 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
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
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,
Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking-song.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow-grasses mellow,

Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
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!

"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,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring The Brides of Enderby?'"