Life struggled long with death in that small frame, But it was strong, and conquered. All became As it had been with the poor family,-- All, saving that which nevermore might be: There was an empty place,--they were but three.
[1] A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny.
[Illustration: THE FATAL COAST-TIDE. "The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! The rising tide comes on apace." --JEAN INGELOW. _From a photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co., after painting by G. Haquette._]
HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.]
THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull! if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells! Play 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, Mellow, mellow! 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, 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. And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.