218 APPRENTICED. APPRENTICED. (OLD STYLE.) "COME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass; Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!" “My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with thee, O?" "And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong; And O! had I but served the time that takes so long to flee, O! And thou, my lass, by morning's light, wast all in white, wast all in white; And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O!" F. Ingelow. THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 219 THE LONG WHITE SEAM. As I came round the harbour buoy, No wave the land-locked harbour stirred, It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, It's reef and furl, and haul the line, I climbed to reach her cottage door; Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, As the shining water leaped of old Aye longing to list anew, Awake and in my dream, But never a song she sang like this, Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights, And peace drop down on that low roof, And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear, All for the love of me. For O, for O, with brows bent low, By the flickering candle's gleam, J. Ingelow. 220 THE SOLITARY REAPER. THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, No Nightingale did ever chaunt A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings?- Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang W. Wordsworth. 221 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. ARIEL to Miranda:-Take This slave of music, for the sake 222 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. When you die, the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon Is not sadder in her cell When you live again on earth,— Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps and served your will. Now, in humbler happier lot, This is all remembered not; And now, alas! the poor Sprite is From you he only dares to crave, The artist who this idol wrought, From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, |