THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 237 And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Stand beside the sobbing river, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; From your clovers lift the head; F. Ingelow. 238 THE SANDS OF DEE. THE SANDS OF DEE. "OH, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dark with foam, The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?" Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee! They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley. THREE FISHERS. 239 THREE FISHERS. THREE fishers went sailing out into the west, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour-bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, In the morning gleam, as the tide went down; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. C. Kingsley. 240 THE STORM. THE STORM. (MEG BLANE.) "LORD, hearken to me! Save all poor souls at sea! For wha could hear? The wild white water screams, The fireflaught gleams On tattered sail and shroud! Under the red mast-light The hissing waters slip; Thick reeks the storm o' night Round him that steers the ship,— And his een are blind, And he knows not where they run. LORD, be kind! Whistle back Thy wind, For the sake of CHRIST Thy Son!" And as she prayed she knelt not on her knee, But, standing on the threshold, looked to Sea, Where all was blackness and a watery roar, Save when the dead light, flickering far away, Flash'd on the line of foam upon the shore, And showed the ribs of reef and surging bay! There was no sign of life across the dark, No piteous light from fishing-boat or bark, Albeit for such she hush'd her heart to pray. THE STORM. With tattered plaid wrapt tight around her form, 'Twas but a wooden hut under the height, "O Mither, are ye there?" 241 A deep voice filled the dark; she thrill'd to hear; Sat rubbing sleepy eyes: A bearded man, with heavy hanging chin, "Water!" he said; and deep his thirst was quelled Modern Poets. 16 |