Standard Selections Part 8

"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 flight 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.

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 Sat.u.r.day at eventide.

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main: 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 old 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: "G.o.d save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the gra.s.sy lea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow, seething wave Sobbed in the gra.s.ses at oure feet.

The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to me, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

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, "O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the gra.s.s, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis sh.o.r.e, "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, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, s.h.i.+ver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome sh.o.r.e; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow gra.s.ses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed."

HOW DID YOU DIE?[5]

EDMUND VANCE COOKE

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful, Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only--how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there--that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why The Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow, or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only--how did you die?

FOOTNOTE:

[5] By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author.

THE INDIGO BIRD[6]

JOHN BURROUGHS

Oh, late to come but long to sing, My little finch of deep-dyed wing, I welcome thee this day!

Thou comest with the orchard bloom, The azure days, the sweet perfume That fills the breath of May.

A winged gem amid the trees, A cheery strain upon the breeze From tree-top sifting down; A leafy nest in covert low; When daisies come and brambles blow, A mate in Quaker brown.

But most I prize, past summer's prime, When other throats have ceased to chime, Thy faithful tree-top strain; No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall-- A prelude with a "dying fall,"

That soothes the summer's pain.

Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade, And clematis a bower hath made, Or, in the bushy fields, On breezy slopes where cattle graze, At noon on dreamy August days, Thy strain its solace yields.

Oh, bird inured to sun and heat, And steeped in summer languor sweet, The tranquil days are thine.

The season's fret and urge are o'er, Its tide is loitering on the sh.o.r.e; Make thy contentment mine!

FOOTNOTE:

[6] By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS