232 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells- To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. E. A. Poe. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST (1571.) THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he, Men say it was a stolen tyde The Lord that sent it, He knows all; The message that the bells let fall: By millions crouched on the old sea wall. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 233 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, Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; 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, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 234 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, The swanherds where their sedges are Then some looked uppe into the sky, To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They ring the tune of Enderby! "For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; They have not spared to wake the towne: I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 235 He raised a shout as he drew on, 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, 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; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With that he cried and beat his breast; And rearing Lindis backward pressed Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then all the mighty floods were out. 236 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: Upon the roofe we sate that night; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower, red and high— And awsome bells they were to mee, 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; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, And didst thou visit him no more! Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; Ere yet the early dawn was clear. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, To manye more than myne and mee: |