Poems by Jean Ingelow

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(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.)
We reached the place by night,
"Master," quoth the auld hound
I took a year out of my life and story -
"Whither away, thou little eyeless rover?
(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.)
"There was darkness."
(F.M.L.)
They said "Too late, too late, the work is done;
When I do sit apart
Old Albion sat on a crag of late.
Can I make white enough my thought for thee,
BOOK I.
I.
Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane,
Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn -
My fair lady's a dear, dear lady -
And can this be my own world?
(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN)
Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone
I clomb full high the belfry tower
And what will ye hear, my daughters dear? -
I. NOONDAY.
The dove laid some little sticks,
Hark! a lover binding sheaves
It was a village built in a green rent,
Cold, my dear, - cold and quiet.
She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray
One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea;
"I have loved thee with an everlasting love."
I held my way through Defton Wood,
I.
When found the rose delight in her fair hue?
A waxing moon that, crescent yet,
Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven;
We are much bound to them that do succeed;
O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,
The marten flew to the finch's nest,
ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND.
One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,
(On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.)
Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter - woodland hollows thickly strewing,
(A Scholar is musing on his want of success.)
(The Answer.)
Out of the melancholy that is made
Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?'
"Art Thou He that should come?"
(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)
Into the rock the road is cut full deep,
I read upon that book,
I.
It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,
Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans,
Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe
In the night she told a story,
Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate.
I.
Lying imbedded in the green champaign
["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked m
Come away, the clouds are high,
"While it was yet dark."
Midsummer night, not dark, not light,
White as white butterflies that each one dons
She was but a child, a child,
"Thy gentleness hath made me great."
"Let us now go even unto Bethlehem."
As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx
A cottager leaned whispering by her hives,
On the rocks by Aberdeen,
I go beyond the commandment.' So be it. Then mine be the blame,
(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862.
A Schoolroom.
(A MAN SPEAKS.)
Looking Over A Gate At A Pool In A Field.
O that word REGRET!
Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well:
My heart is sick awishing and awaiting:
His blew His winds, and they were scattered.
(Old Style.)
They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely -
While ripening corn grew thick and deep,
I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
I.
To bear, to nurse, to rear,
I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
The logs burn red; she lifts her head,
"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out;
(A WOMAN SPEAKS.)
Little babe, while burns the west,
(A Humble Imitation.)
I.
Ay, I saw her, we have met, -
"Old man, upon the green hillside,
SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.
(Old English Manner.)
(Old English Manner.)
TIRED.
I.
THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN."
Once upon a time, I lay
I saw when I looked up, on either hand,
"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs."
I passed an inland-cliff precipitate;
I walked beside a dark gray sea.
When in a May-day hush
When I hear the waters fretting,
Her younger sister, that Speranza hight.
(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.)
"Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house."
Mother.
"Though I take the wings of the morning."
Toll -
They tell strange things of the primeval earth,
Fairest fair, best of good,
When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers,
I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere
The fairy woman maketh moan,
I love this gray old church, the low, long nave,
My good man - he's an old, old man -
(1571.)
Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes,
ABSENT.
As I came round the harbor buoy,
I.
Only you'd have me speak.
Once on a time there walked a mariner,
"In Him we live, and move, and have our being."
There are who give themselves to work for men, -
I.
The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow.
Marvels of sleep, grown cold!
In The Concluding Part Of A Discourse On Fame.
The white moon wasteth,
"The time of the singing of birds is come."
"He doeth all things well."
"Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light."
"And fell on his neck, and kissed him."
Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine,
Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade
The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said,
"Blessed are ye that weep now."
Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love
THE APOLOGY.
When I reflect how little I have done,
While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay,
Like coral insects multitudinous
"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself."

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