| The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' of silk, |
| An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; |
| Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stove-pipe hats were there, |
| An' doodes 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. |
| |
| The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: |
| "Our organist is kept' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, |
| An' as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain't here, |
| Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" |
| |
| An' then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, |
| Give an interductory hiccup, an' then swaggered up the aisle. |
| Then thro' that holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, |
| An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. |
| |
| Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: |
| "This man perfanes the house of God! W'y, this is sacrilege!" |
| The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, |
| An' stalked an' swaggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. |
| |
| He then went pawin' thro' the keys, an' soon there rose a strain |
| Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify the brain; |
| An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, |
| He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. |
| |
| The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry, |
| It swelled into the rafters, an' bulged out into the sky; |
| The ol' church shook and staggered, an' seemed to reel an' sway, |
| An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!!" |
| |
| An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our ears, |
| Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; |
| An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on the mat, |
| Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' Mother, an' all that! |
| |
| An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven— |
| Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the gates uv heaven; |
| The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone— |
| We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God was on His throne! |
| |
| An' then a wail of deep despair an' darkness come again, |
| An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; |
| No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, |
| An' then—the tramp, he swaggered down an' reeled out into the night! |
| |
| But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a word, |
| An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; |
| He had tol' his own life history, an' no eye was dry thet day, |
| W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let up pray." |
| |
| Sam Walter Foss. |
| There lay upon the ocean's shore |
| What once a tortoise served to cover; |
| A year and more, with rush and roar, |
| The surf had rolled it over, |
| Had played with it, and flung it by, |
| As wind and weather might decide it, |
| Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry |
| Cheap burial might provide it. |
| It rested there to bleach or tan, |
| The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; |
| With many a ban the fisherman |
| Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; |
| And there the fisher-girl would stay, |
| Conjecturing with her brother |
| How in their play the poor estray |
| Might serve some use or other. |
| |
| So there it lay, through wet and dry, |
| As empty as the last new sonnet, |
| Till by and by came Mercury, |
| And, having mused upon it, |
| "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things |
| In shape, material, and dimension! |
| Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, |
| A wonderful invention!" |
| |
| So said, so done; the chords he strained, |
| And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, |
| The shell disdained a soul had gained, |
| The lyre had been discovered. |
| O empty world that round us lies, |
| Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, |
| Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, |
| In thee what songs should waken! |
| |
| James Russel Lowell. |
| 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! |
| Play 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 ans peewits pied |
| By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. |
| |
| I sat and spun within the doore, |
| My thread break 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!" all along; |
| 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, sharp and strong; |
| And all the aire, it seemeth mee, |
| Bin full of floating bells (sayeth she), |
| 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. |
| |
| The swanherds where there sedges are |
| Moved on in sunset's golden breath, |
| The shepherde lads I heard affare, |
| And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; |
| Till floating o'er the grassy sea |
| Came down that kindly message free, |
| The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." |
| |
| Then some looked uppe into the sky, |
| And all along where Lindis flows |
| To where the goodly vessels lie, |
| And where the lordly steeple shows, |
| They sayde, "And why should this thing be? |
| What danger lowers by land or sea? |
| They ring the tune of Enderby! |
| |
| "For evil news from Mablethorpe, |
| Of pyrate galleys warping downe; |
| For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, |
| They have not spared to wake the towne; |
| But while the west bin red to see, |
| And storms be none, and pyrates flee, |
| Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" |
| |
| 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: |
| "God 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 grassy 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. |
| |
| And rearing Lindis backward pressed, |
| Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, |
| Then madly at the eygre's breast |
| Flung uppe her weltering walls again. |
| Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— |
| Then beaten foam flew round about— |
| Then all the mighty floods were out. |
| |
| So farre, so fast the eygre drave, |
| The heart had hardly time to beat, |
| Before a shallow seething wave |
| Sobbed in the grasses 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 mee, |
| 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, |
| "Oh, come in life, or come in death! |
| Oh, 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 grass, |
| 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 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, |
| When the water winding down, |
| Onward floweth to the town. |
| |
| I shall never see her more |
| Where the reeds and rushes quiver, |
| Shiver, quiver; |
| Stand beside the sobbing river, |
| Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling |
| To the sandy lonesome shore; |
| I shall never hear her calling, |
| "Leave your meadow grasses 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." |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |