Song For A Babe.

Little babe, while burns the west,
Warm thee, warm thee in my breast;
While the moon doth shine her best,
    And the dews distil not.

All the land so sad, so fair -
Sweet its toils are, blest its care.
Child, we may not enter there!
    Some there are that will not.

Fain would I thy margins know,
Land of work, and land of snow;
Land of life, whose rivers flow
    On, and on, and stay not.

Fain would I thy small limbs fold,
While the weary hours are told,
Little babe in cradle cold.
    Some there are that may not.

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

The High Tide On The Coast Of Lincolnshire.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Songs Of The Night Watches, - Introductory.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Vine-Arbour In The Far West.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

To ---- .

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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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 Emigrant Mother

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I

"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a ...

William Wordsworth

Not In Vain I Waited.

        She was but a child, a child,
    And I a man grown;
        Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild,
    And, I thought, my own.
What could I do? The long grass groweth,
    The long wave floweth with a murmur on:
The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth?
    Ere I thought to lose her she was grown - and gone.
This day or that day in warm spring weather.
The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether.
"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me,
Down in the dell wishing - wishing, wishing for thee."

        The dews hang on the white may,
    Like a ghost it stands,
        All in the dusk before day
    That folds the dim lands:

Dark fell the skies when once belated,
    Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun;

Jean Ingelow

A Cottage In A Chine.

We reached the place by night,
And heard the waves breaking:
They came to meet us with candles alight
To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
With tufted flowers down shaking.

With head beneath her wing,
A little wren was sleeping -
So near, I had found it an easy thing
To steal her for my keeping
From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing
Across the path was sweeping.

Down rocky steps rough-hewed,
Where cup-mosses flowered,
And under the trees, all twisted and rude,
Wherewith the dell was dowered,
They led us, where deep in its solitude
Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered.

The thatch was all bespread
With climbing passion-flowers;
They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed
That da...

Jean Ingelow

Songs Of Seven.

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven:
I've said my "seven times" over and over,
Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing -
You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave mar...

Jean Ingelow

Song In Three Parts.

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
    'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
    Four am I fair,'

    Quoth the brown bee
    'In thy white wear
    Four thou art fair.
    A mystery
    Of honeyed snow
    In scented air
    The bee lines flow
    Straight unto thee.
    Great boon and bliss
    All pure I wis,
    And sweet to grow
    Ay, so to give
    That many live.
    Now as for me,
    I,' quoth the bee,
    'Have not to give,
    Through long hours sunny
    Gathering I live:
    Aye debonair
    Sailing sweet air
    After my fare,
    Bee-bread and honey.
    In thy deep coombe,
    O thou white broom,
    Where no...

Jean Ingelow