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Yea, though one praise and love, or all forget,
What sinless dove can show to heaven
Her wanton eyes are fastened, even
All of her feels the approaching awe,
Pass not, but sweetly onward draw,
The whispering trees, the tangled lane,
Of lark and nightingale; the wain
Which fill the country hours with bliss;
Earth waking 'neath Aurora's kiss;
The country maiden's cheek of rose;
Her lover's artless, amorous gift,
Which pure affection's heart inclose;
Enchantments hold my heart in thrall; Those London pavements, lowering sky,
Store secrets, on mine eyes that fall,
Mid the doomed city's trackless woe:
Its ugliness “offends him so."
Or else more flexible, who find
Undreamed of by the simple mind,
On art, religion, social needs,
In him, this dubious book who reads! For curious eyes no hours are spent, That bring not interest, content. I'll call not these the best, nor those ;
The country fashions, or the town; On each descend heaven's bounteous rains,
On each the impartial sun looks down. Why should we gird and argue, friend; Not follow where our natures tend ? The secret's this; where'er our lot,
To read, mark, learn, digest them well; The devious paths we mortals take
To gain, at length, our heaven or hell: Alike in some still, rural scene On Regent Street and Bethnal Green.
JEAN INGELOW, an English poet and romance-writer, born at Boston, Lincolnshire, in 1830; died at Kensington, July 20, 1897. Her first publication was “ Tales of Orris” (1860). Her father was a banker and a man of superior intellectual culture. As a child Miss Ingelow was exceedingly shy and reserved. She first came into public notice as a poet when her volume of poems containing “ Divided," “ High Tide on the coast of Lincolnshire," and the “Songs of Seven," was published in 1863, and the author secured immediate recognition as a poet of high rank. She published “A Story of Doom, and Other Poems" (1867); “Monitions of the Unseen” and “Poems of Love and Childhood ” (1870), and “Poems of the Old Days and the New” (1885). She wrote several works for the young, among which were “Studies for Stories" (1864); “Poor Matt" (1866); “Stories told to a Child,” two series (18661872); “ A Sister's Bye-Hours" (1868); “ Mopsa the Fairy" (1869); “Little Wonder-Horn” (1872); “Home Thoughts and Home Scenes," “ The Suspicious Jackdaw,” “The Grandmother's Shoe,” “ The Golden Opportunity,” “The Moorish Gold," "The Minnows with Silver Tails,” “Two Ways of Telling a Story," “The Wild Duck Shooter.” Her second series of poems was published in 1876, and her third series in 1885. She was also the author of several novels: “Off the Skelligs” (1873); “Fated to be Free” (1874); “ Sarah de Berenger" (1881); “Don John” (1881); “ John Jerome” (1886), and “A Motto Changed " (1894). During the latter part of her life Miss Ingelow lived in London, and three times a week she gave what she called a “copyright dinner” to twelve needy persons just discharged from the hospitals.
Miss Ingelow's writings were popular in America, as well as in England. In 1874 her poems had reached a sale of 98,000 copies in this country. She was a writer of the widest popularity. She had among other requisites for poetical composition what the critics called the gift of clear, strong, and simple language, and her pictures showed at once accurate observation of nature combined with a strong sympathy with the common interests of life.
SONGS OF SEVEN.
SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION.
There's no rain left in heaven:
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
They are only one times one.
And shining so round and low;
You are nothing now but a bow.
That God has hidden your face ?
And shine again in your place.
You've powdered your legs with gold !
Give me your money to hold !
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
I will not steal them away;
I am seven times one to-day.
SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE.
How many soever they be,
Come over, come over to me.
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.
While a boy listened alone;
All by himself on a stone.
And mine, they are yet to be;
You leave the story to me.
Preparing her hoods of snow;
O, children take long to grow.
Nor long summer bide so late;
For some things are ill to wait.
While dear hands are laid on my head;
For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story – the birds cannot sing it,
Not one, as he sits on the tree;
Such as I wish it to be.
SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE.
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; « Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover Hush, nightingale, hush! 0. sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
For my love he is late !
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?