Page:Poems by Ingelow, Jean.djvu/190

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The High Tide.
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 mee:But each will mourn his own (she saith);And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,'Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!' calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,'Cusha! Cusha!' all alongWhere 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 moreWhere the reeds and rushes quiver,Shiver, quiver;Stand beside the sobbing river,Sobbing, throbbing, in its fallingTo the sandy lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,
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