ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.-NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 277 "I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE." Over; but in? The world is full; So many, and so wide abroad: I asked: my soul bethought of this:- We watched it glide from the silver sands, | A scar, brought from some well-won field, And all our sunshine grew strangely Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; We may not sunder the veil apart, That hides from our vision the gates Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch On slumb'rous wings the vulture held Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. there Firing the floor with his inverted torch; Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron with monoto nous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known Sorrow, - he had walked with her, Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still he heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. Regave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped: her head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene. JEAN INGELOW. I sat and spun within the doore, 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, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soon be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF Againe I hear the Lindis flow, LINCOLNSHIRE. Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire it seemeth me Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene. The swannerds where their sedges are And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; |