A Wedding Song.

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane,
My Dane with the beautiful eyes!
Thousands and thousands await thee full fain,
And talk of the wind and the skies.
Fear not from folk and from country to part,
O, I swear it is wisely done:
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart,
As becometh my father's son.

Great London was shouting as I went down.
"She is worthy," I said, "of this;
What shall I give who have promised a crown?
O, first I will give her a kiss."
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane,
Through the waving wonderful crowd:
Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain,
Like mighty thunders and loud.

And they said, "He is young, the lad we love,
The heir of the Isles is young:
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above,
Can neither be said nor sung.

"He brings us a pledge - he will do his part
With the best of his race and name;" -
And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart,
As may suit with my mother's fame.

Jean Ingelow

Jean Ingelow was an English poet and novelist known for her popular stories and poems in the 19th century. Her work, including 'Mopsa the Fairy', earned her recognition during her lifetime. She was also involved in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Ingelow published several poetry collections, with her first in 1863, which was well-received and cemented her reputation as a poet.

Jean Ingelow

A Dead Year.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. The Warbling Of Blackbirds.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Thou That Sleepest Not Afraid. (Hymn)

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Gleaning Song.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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A Sea Song.

Old Albion sat on a crag of late.
And sang out - "Ahoy! ahoy!
Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate.
And this to my sailor boy!
    Come over, come home,
    Through the salt sea foam,
    My sailor, my sailor boy.

"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween,
A crown for my sailor's head,
And all for the worth of a widowed queen,
And the love of the noble dead;
    And the fear and fame
    Of the island's name
Where my boy was born and bred.

"Content thee, content thee, let it alone,
Thou marked for a choice so rare;
Though treaties be treaties, never a throne
Was proffered for cause as fair.
    Yet come to me home,
    Through the salt sea foam,
    For the Greek must ask elsewhere.

"'Tis a pity, my sailor,...

Jean Ingelow

An Old Wife's Song.

And what will ye hear, my daughters dear? -
    Oh, what will ye hear this night?
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer,
    Or of lovers and ladies bright?

"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away
    From the land where fain would we be),
"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain
    That is sung in our own countrie.

"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago,
    When we walked on the upland lea,
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white,
    Long rays shooting out from the sea;

"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep
    On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair.
Never grass was seen so thick nor so green
    As the grass that grew up there!

"In the town was no smoke, for none ther...

Jean Ingelow

The High Tide On The Coast Of Lincolnshire.

(1571.)


The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran 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 nought of strange, beside
The nights 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 w...

Jean Ingelow

The Long White Seam.

As I came round the harbor buoy,
    The lights began to gleam,
No wave the land-locked water stirred,
    The crags were white as cream;
And I marked my love by candle-light
    Sewing her long white seam.
        It's aye sewing ashore, my dear,
    Watch and steer at sea,
        It's reef and furl, and haul the line,
    Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;
    O sweetly my love sings!
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,
    My soul to meet it springs
As the shining water leaped of old,
    When stirred by angel wings.
        Aye longing to list anew,
    Awake and in my dream,
        But never a song she sang like this,
    Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor ...

Jean Ingelow

Scotch Song

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
    To meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny birds
    Sat biggin' in the broom.

The tane it built with the green, green moss,
    But and the bents sae fine,
And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair
    Linked up wi' siller twine.

'O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,
    O whaur the bents sae fine?
And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair
    That ance was tress o' mine?'

'We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile,
    The bents fra' the whinny muir,
And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair,
    To please his braw new fere.'

'Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,
    And strew them saft o'er me;
My token's tint, my love is fause,
    I'll lay me doon and dee...

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Dominion.

When found the rose delight in her fair hue?
Color is nothing to this world; 'tis I
That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul,
That trees are nothing to their fellow trees;
It is but I that love their stateliness,
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine;
But the other world ye wot of, shall go too;
I will carry it in my bosom. O my world,
That was not built with clay!
    Consider it
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, -
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings
We learn those airs we shall be set to play
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings,
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind,
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet
Lie grovelling? More is w...

Jean Ingelow