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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 280 pages of information about Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume II..

Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes,
  O honey-dew! drop from the tree. 
Float up through your clear river shallows,
  White lilies, beloved of the bee.

Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee,
  Her bounty drops soft as the dew,
And spotless in honor confess thee,
  As lilies are spotless in hue.

On the roof stands yon white stork awaking,
  His feathers flush rosy the while,
For, lo! from the blushing east breaking,
  The sun sheds the bloom of his smile.

Let them boast of thy word, “It is certain;
  We doubt it no more,” let them say,
“Than to-morrow that night’s dusky curtain
  Shall roll back its folds for the day.”


When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers,
  Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy,
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers,
  And a “pull’e haul’e, pull’e haul’e, yoy! heave, hoy!”

There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth,
  But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy,
For ’tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh—­oh, she cometh! 
  With a “pull’e haul’e, pull’e haul’e, yoy! heave, hoy!”

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter,
  And I hear the capstan creaking—­’tis a sound that cannot cloy. 
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter,
  With a “pull’e haul’e, pull’e haul’e, yoy! heave, hoy!”

“Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us.” 
  So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy. 
We are launched!  But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o’er us
  Than yon “pull’e haul’e, pull’e haul’e, yoy! heave, hoy!”


The marten flew to the finch’s nest,
  Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay: 
“The arrow it sped to thy brown mate’s breast;
  Low in the broom is thy mate to-day.”

“Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? 
  Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.” 
  She beateth her wings, and away, away.

“Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
  (Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)! 
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. 
  O mournful morrow!  O dark to-day!”

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
  Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
  And home is silent, and love is clay.


On the rocks by Aberdeen,
Where the whislin’ wave had been,
As I wandered and at e’en
          Was eerie;

There I saw thee sailing west,
And I ran with joy opprest—­
Ay, and took out all my best,
          My dearie.

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