No More Learning

Charioteer - Willingly, if it does not involve a sin.
Sansthānaka Clever man! Not a taint of sin.
Charioteer — Speak, then.
Sansthānaka Kill this woman.
Charioteer If I should kill this innocent woman, this orna-
ment of the town, on what boat can I pass over the stream that
leads to heaven?


## p. 7961 (#153) ###########################################

INDIAN LITERATURE
7961
Sansthānaka — I will furnish you a boat. And you must con-
sider that no one will you in this garden if you kill her. . .
[The Charioteer refuses. Sansthānaka changes his tune. ]
Sansthånaka — My son, my servant, I will give you golden
bracelets.
Charioteer — And I will put them on.
Sansthānaka — I will have a chair of gold made for you.
Charioteer And I will sit on it.
Sansthanaka - I will give you the leavings of my dinner,
Charioteer — And I will swallow them.
Sansthānaka — I will set you over all my servants.
Charioteer - And I will be a lord.
Sansthānaka — Very well, then, regard my words.
Charioteer - Great sir, I will do anything - only not sin.
Sansthanaka Not a taint of sin.
Charioteer - Speak then, great sir.
Sansthānaka Kill this woman.
Charioteer – Be merciful, great sir: I have brought her here
I
by accident.
Sansthānaka Slave! have I no power over you ?
Charioteer You have power over my body, great sir, but not
over my good conduct. Be merciful, I am frightened to death.
Sansthānaka What are you afraid of, if you are my servant ?
Charioteer – Of the next world, great sir.
After the Translation of Böhtlingk.
EXTRACT FROM KĀLIDĀSA'S ÇAKUNTALĀ!
[The King sees Çakuntalā for the first time, clad in homespun, and speaks. )
T7
HAT coarse ascetic garb, which, knotted firmly on the shoul-
der, covers her full bosom, doth cast a darkness upon her
beauteous form, even as a dry leaf darkens an opening bud.
The lotus is lovely, even if it grows in a swamp.
The spots
on the moon only brighten the light of its beauty. Even so in
homespun garb yon slender maiden appears all the fairer.
Though she speaks not to me, yet doth she listen when I
speak. Though she turns not her face toward me, yet doth her
eye seek me alone.
After the Translation of Meier.


## p. 7962 (#154) ###########################################

7962
INDIAN LITERATURE
SONG FROM THE LYRIC ACT OF THE VIKRAMORVAÇI'
L
ITTLE bird, fair bird, give me my beloved again. Thou hast
taken her beauty away.
Thou hast seen her; the beauty
thou wearest is hers.
Or has she turned into yon laughing brook? For its wave-
lets are her arching brows; the bright birds that swim on it are
her girdle; its foam is her fluttering garment; and its tripping
dancing gait is that of my beloved. Surely she has become
yon brook.
After the Translation of Hoefer.
SPECIMENS OF LYRIC POETRY
FROM KALIDĀSA's "CLOUD MESSENGER'
I*
THE twisting stream I see the play of thy eyebrows; in the
eye of the doe I see thy glance; in the peacock's tail the
luxury of thy hair. In the moon I see the beauty of thy
face, and in the priyangu I see thy slender limbs. But ah! thy
likeness united all in one place I see nowhere! I paint thee
oft as angry, red colors on smooth stones, and would paint my
own face near to thine. But the tear rises in my eye and dark-
ness covers my sight. Even here [in the attempt to paint us
united] our evil fate keeps us apart! When the gods of the
forest see me, how I stretch out my arms to thee to draw thee
to my breast,- then, I think, from their eyes will come the
tears, which like large pearls glitter on the fresh buds.
After the Translation of Max Müller.
FROM KĀLIDĀSA's UNION OF SEASONS':* THE SUMMER
Now The thirsty gazelle hastens after water, its palate dry,
glowing with the mighty heat, when like a herd of elephants
the clouds appear. The snake which, warmed by the sun's rays,
once stretched himself in the burning hot sand, now hissing
turns and seeks the shade. The lion, with thirsty throat, hunts
the elephant no more. Courage fails him, his tongue trembles.
Forest fires have destroyed the young grass, the gust of
the wind drives fiercely the dry leaves. The waters are dried
* For a translation in verse of this and the following selection, see Sir
Edwin Arnold's (Grishma,' Vol. ii, of this work.


## p. 7963 (#155) ###########################################

INDIAN LITERATURE
7963
up in every pool. In sighs ceases the song of the birds, as they
cluster upon the trees decked ly with faded leaves. The weary
monkeys crawl slowly on the hill. The buffaloes wander about
seeking for water.
But he that lives by the lotus-pond
drinks the fragrance of the flowers, wets with cool streams the
floors of the house, and by moonlight sports with his beloved in
song and jest; he forgets the heat of summer.
FROM KĀLIDĀSA's (UNION OF SEASONS): THE SPRING
The springtime-god, the god of love, comes, beloved, to wound
the hearts of happy men; the god who has made the bees his
bowstring, and mango blossoms his arrows. The maiden loves,
the light breeze blows fragrantly, the trees are in bloom, and the
lotus adorns the pool. Peaceful is the night and refreshing is the
day. How lovely is all in spring! When the lakes are bright
with jewels [blossoms), and like the moon in splendor shines
every band of maidens; when mango-trees wave amid flowers,
then comes the joy of spring. The fair girls wander out, at the
call of the love-god, with garlands on the breast, with cool san-
dals on the feet, and their breath fragrant with betel. Fearless
they go, and karnikära flowers make their earrings, while açoka
buds are nestling in their dark locks; and the jasmine lies upon
their heads. The heart of the young man is filled with joy, as
the atimuktas open their fragrant buds, and the drunken bees
kiss the shining flowers, while delicately back and forth sway the
tendrils of every plant touched by the light zephyrs. But he
that is repulsed by his love is pierced in his heart as by an arrow.
After the Translation of Bohlen.
OTHER OF KĀLIDĀSA's LYRIC
T"
WHINE eyes are blue lotus flowers; thy teeth, white jasmine;
thy face is like a lotus flower. So thy body must be made
of the leaves of most delicate flowers: how comes it then
that god hath given thee a heart of stone ?
Her eye-
MY LOVE is a hunter, who comes proudly hither.
brows are the huntsman's bended dow; her glances are the
huntsman's piercing darts. They surely and swiftly smite my
heart, which is the wounded gazelle.


## p. 7964 (#156) ###########################################

7964
INDIAN LITERATURE
FROM BHARTRIHARI'S LYRIC
S"another, while another is pleased with me.
HE whom I love loves another, and the other again loves
Ah! the tricks
of the god of love!
After the Translation of Bohlen.
WHERE thou art not and the light of thine eyes, there to me
is darkness; even by the brightness of the taper's light, all to
me is dark.
Even by the quiet glow of the hearth-fire, all to me
is dark. Though the moon and the stars shine together, yet all
is dark to me. The light of the sun is able only to distress me.
Where thou, my doe, and thine eyes are not, there all is dark to
me.
The god of love sits fishing on the ocean of the world, and
on the end of his hook he has hung a woman. When the little
human fishes come they are not on their guard.
on their guard. Quickly he
catches them and broils them in love's fire.
After the Translation of Schroeder.
FROM AMARU'S LYRIC
the
T" upon the face of her husband, who pretends to be sleeping
still. Over and over again she kisses his face without
shame. But as she sees him stir, her face droops with bashful-
ness, till it is raised and kissed by her laughing beloved.
The wife of him that is gone upon a journey looks down the
road upon which he will return, far as the eye can see; till as
the day ends and darkness comes and the path can be seen no
more, she turns to enter the house. But in that moment she
thinks, “Even now he will be coming,” and quickly turns her
head and looks again.
THE BEE'S DREAM
“NI
ight will quickly pass, fair will be the dawn; the sun will
rise in beauty and the glorious lilies will unfold them-
selves. ” While a bee, sleeping in a flower, thus dreamed,
came, alas! an elephant and crushed it as it lay.
After the Translation of Böhtlingk.


## p. 7965 (#157) ###########################################

INDIAN LITERATURE
7965
OTHER LYRIC PIECES
I
HAVE seen thy form, and behold, even the jasmine seems
coarse.
TE
HE moon in the spotless sky wanders, like a white flamingo
in its silver beauty. No cloud troubles the clearness, the
air is divinely pure.
The star-flowers of the sky sparkle,
shining through all space.
After the Translation of Schroeder.
IN
SPECIMENS OF THE RELIGIOUS-EROTIC LYRIC OF THE
TWELFTH CENTURY
From the “Gitagovinda'
(Rādhā's friend tells her how god Krishna sports with the herds-girls. ]
IN THE breath of spring, Rādhā, with body fair as flowers of
spring, seeking Krishna everywhere, was thus addressed by
her friend:—“Under a garland of fragrant flowers, a gar-
land which the bees surround, Krishna now in spring is playing,
happy spring; and dances with the maidens at a time not sweet
to those whose love is gone. Where lamentations arise from
women whose lovers are away; where the young tamals are
drunken with sweet flowers, and the kinçuka buds, the lovely, are
gleaming; where are golden keçaras like to the sceptre of the
love-god; and the patali buds are filled with bees like the quiver
of Eros. There is Krishna playing, and dances with the maid-
Krishna in the crowd of maidens jests with them that jest
with him. Clothed in a yellow garment, crowned with flowers,
anointed with sandal paste, rings in his ears, smiling amid the
merry throng, he sports, all in the joy of spring; while, with
swelling breasts, embracing Krishna, one of the maidens sings
to him, and another whispers something in his ear and swiftly
kisses the beloved one. One he embraces, and one he kisses, and
one he presses upon his heart, looks at one with a smile, and
lists to the words of another. ”
ens.


## p. 7966 (#158) ###########################################

7966
INDIAN LITERATURE
DHĀ'S JEALOUS LAMENT
From the same
D
RUNK with joy on the breast of Krishna, while on her bosom
the jewel trembles, sweetly with Krishna united, sports
one who seems to me blest. Her moon-like face sur-
rounded with fair locks, drinking his lips till weary with drink-
ing, sweetly with Krishna united, sports one who seems to me
blest. Smiling and reddening with the glance of the beloved,
quivering with the rapture of love, sports one who seems to me
blest [etc. ].
After the Translation of Rückert.
SPECIMEN OF THE RELIGIOUS POETRY OF THE MODERN SECTS
FROM THE BIBLE OF THE DADU PANTHIS, SIXTEENTH CENTURY
H*
E is my God who maketh all things perfect. O foolish one,
God is not far from you.
He is near you.
God's power is
always with you. Whatever is to be, is God's will. What
will be, will be. Therefore long not for grief or joy, because by
seeking the one you may find the other. All things are sweet
to them that love God. I am satisfied with this, that happiness
is in proportion to devotion. O God, thou who art truth, grant
me contentment, love, devotion, and faith. Sit ye with humility
at the feet of God and rid yourselves of the sickness of your
bodies. From the wickedness of the body there is much to fear,
because all sins enter into it. Therefore let your dwelling be
with the fearless, and direct yourselves toward the light of God.
For there neither poison nor sword has power to destroy, and
sin cannot enter.
Translation of Wilson.
NOTE. — For other selections of Indian literature see individual
authors and works. A bibliography will include Colebrooke, “Essays,'
re-edited by Cowell and Whitney; Max Müller, Ancient Sanskrit Lit-
erature); Whitney, Oriental and Linguistic Studies); Weber, Vorle-
sungen ueber Indische Literaturgeschichte (English translation, as
'Indian Literature, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , Boston);
Von Schroeder, Indiens Literatur und Cultur'; Muir, 'Original San-
skrit Texts); Grassmann, 'Der Rig Veda' (German translation); Kaegi,


## p. 7967 (#159) ###########################################

INDIAN LITERATURE
7967
Der Rig Veda' (translated into English by Arrowsmith); the Sacred
Books of the East' (contain translations from the Çatapatha Brāh-
mana,'Upanishads, law-books, etc. ); Gough, Philosophy of the Upa-
nishads'; Jacobi, Kalpa-Sūtra'; Oldenberg, Buddha'; T. W. Rhys
Davids, “Manual of Buddhism,' (Hibbert Lectures,' and Buddhism,'
also (Buddhist Suttas) translated by Oldenberg and Davids in the
(Sacred Books of the East); Williams, Indian Wisdom”; Protap C.
Roy, “Translation of Mahābhārata' (publishing in India); Jacobi,
Rāmāyana'; Wilson, Analysis of Purānas) (Selected Essays); Wil-
son, Hindu Drama'; Williams, (Sakuntalā); Wilson, Meghadūta';
Brunnhofer, Geist der Indischen Lyrik. There is no special work
on modern Indian literature; but the essays of Wilson and Williams
may be consulted, and much in regard to dialectic and folk-lore liter-
ature will be found in the Indian Antiquary, a journal published in
India. All the most important works on Indian literature till the
time of the Renaissance, and all the works on the religious literature
after this date, will be found in the Bibliography at the end of the
Religions of India' ('Handbooks on the History of Religions').


## p. 7968 (#160) ###########################################

7968
JEAN INGELOW
(1830-)
W
was
ith the volume of Poems) published in 1863 Jean Ingelow
became well known in America, as she had long been at
home. Although her poems and stories had been appearing
from time to time since 1850, the public knew little of the author's
life. She saw no reason why her literary work should entail pub-
licity, and tried hard to maintain her privacy. But as facts were
difficult to discover, an imaginary Jean Ingelow was invented to
gratify curiosity, until she came forward in
self-defense.
Jean Ingelow was born in 1830 at Bos-
ton, Lincolnshire, England, where her father
a banker. Her childhood was quiet
and happy under the care of a bright-natured
Scotch mother, and she early showed an
optimistic capacity for simple enjoyment.
The little girl who gathered her apronful
of stones from the path, to drop them again
farther on, because the poor pebbles must
be so tired of lying in one spot and staring
up into the sky, already felt the imagin-
JEAN INGELOW
ative sympathy with all things which is evi-
dent in the woman's poems.
Her first book, A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings,'
was published anonymously in 1850; and was followed the next year
by Allerton and Dreux,' a story in verse. In these as in her later
work she shows her gift for portraying the homely simplicity of life,
with its latent charm and beauty. Naturally her poetry-loving spirit
fell under the influence of the contemporary poets who were stirring
English hearts, and she sometimes reflects Tennyson and Mrs. Brown-
ing. But she is too individual and spontaneous to remain an imi-
tator, and both in theme and handling of metres she shows unusual
freedom, The Story of Doom' and other religious and didactic
poems are sometimes tedious; but the purely emotional lyrics, such as
High Tide on the coast of Lincolnshire,' the Songs of Seven,'
Divided,' are noteworthy for the musical lilt which made them
cling to the memory, and for a warmth of sentiment which touched
the popular heart.

)
1


## p. 7969 (#161) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7969
Jean Ingelow loved children; and with Mopsa the Fairy,' that
delightful succession of breezy impossibilities, and many other tales,
she has won the love of young readers.
Her first serious effort in fiction was (Studies for Stories? (1864), —
carefully developed character sketches. Since then she has published
several novels, which have been widely read, although they are less
satisfactory than her verse. (Sarah de Berenger' and Don John'
show how ingeniously she can weave a plot. Off the Skelligs, and
its sequel, Fated to be Free,' derive their chief interest from careful
character analysis. But the arrangement of material lacks proportion;
and in her effort to be true to life, she overcrowds her scenes with
children and other people who are merely incidental to the plot, and
have no sufficient reason for being.
(
DIVIDED
I
N EMPTY sky, world ,
A Purple of fox-glove, yellow of broom;
We two among them wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading perfume.
Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet,
Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.
Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,
'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.
We two walk till the purple dieth,
And short dry grass under foot is brown;
But one little streak at a distance lieth,
Green like a ribbon to prank the down.
II
Over the grass we stepped unto it,
And God he knoweth how blithe we were !
Never a voice to bid us eschew it:
Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!
XIV-499


## p. 7970 (#162) ###########################################

7970
JEAN INGELOW
Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen;
Drop over drop there filtered and slided
A tiny bright beck that trickled between.
Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,
Light was our talk as of faëry bells;
Faëry wedding-bells faintly rung to us
Down in their fortunate parallels.
Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,
We lapped the grass on that youngling spring;
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,
And said, “Let us follow it westering. ”
INT
A dappled sky, a world of meadows:
Circling above us the black rooks fly
Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows
Flit on the blossoming tapestry.
Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;
And lo, the sun like a lover darteth
His flattering smile on her wayward track.
Sing on! We sing in the glorious weather
Till one steps over the tiny strand,
So narrow in sooth that still together
On either brink we go hand in hand.
The beck grows wider, the hands must sever.
On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever,
Taking the course of the stooping sun.
He prays,
I cry,
Come over
-I may not follow;
Return » – but he cannot come:
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.
IV
A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.


## p. 7971 (#163) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7971
A little pain when the beck grows wider -
« Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell! »
"I may not cross ” — and the voice beside her
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.
No backward path; ah!
no returning;
No second crossing that ripple's flow:
«Come to me now, for the west is burning;
Come ere it darkens; ” — “Ah no! ah no! »
Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching –
The beck grows wider and swift and deep;
Passionate words as of one beseeching
The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep.
-
V
A yellow moon in splendor drooping,
A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,
Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
And goeth stilly as soul that fears.
We two walk on in our grassy places
On either marge of the moonlit flood,
With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.
VI
A shady freshness, chafers whirring,
A little piping of leaf-hid birds;
A futter of wings, a fitful stirring,
A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.
Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered;
Round valleys like nests, all ferny-lined;
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,
Swell high in their freckled robes behind.
A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;


## p. 7972 (#164) ###########################################

7972
JEAN INGELOW
A flashing edge for the milk-white river;
The beck, a river - with still sleek tide.
Broad and white, and polished as silver,
On she goes under fruit-laden trees;
Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.
Glitters the dew and shines the river,
Up comes the lily and dries her bell;
But two are walking apart forever,
And wave their hands for a mute farewell.
VII
A braver swell, a swifter sliding;
The river, hasteth, her banks recede.
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding
Bear down the lily and drown the reed.
Stately prows are rising and bowing
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air),
And level sands for banks endowing
The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.
While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,
And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,
How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,
That moving speck on the far-off side!
Farther, farther - I see it - know it
My eyes brim over, it melts away:
Only my heart to my heart shall show it
As I walk desolate day by day.
VIII
And yet I know past all doubting, truly,-
A knowledge greater than grief can dim, —
I know, as he loved, he will love me duly;
Yea, better - e'en better than I love him.
And as I walk by the vast calm river,
The awful river so dread to see,
« Thy breadth and thy depth forever
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me. ”
I say,


## p. 7973 (#165) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7973
SAND MARTINS
I
PASSED an inland cliff precipitate;
From tiny caves peeped many a sooty poll;
In each a mother-martin sat elate,
And of the news delivered her small soul.
Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay,
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell:
«Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day ? )—
“Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well. ”
And hearkening, I was sure their little ones
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made
Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns,
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;
And visions of the sky as of a cup
Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand,
And quivering air-waves trembling up and up,
And blank stone faces marvelously bland.
«When should the young be fledged, and with them hie
Where costly day drops down in crimson light?
(Fortunate countries of the firefly
Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night,
“And the immortal moon takes turn with them. )
When should they pass again by that red land,
Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem
To fringe with phantom palms a robe of sand ?
“When should they dip their breasts again and play
In slumbrous azure pools clear as the air,
Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day,
Stalking amid the lotus blossoms fair ?
“Then over podded tamarinds bear their flight,
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms,
And so betake them to a south sea-bight
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms
“Whose roots are in the spray? Oh, haply there
Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find
A frigate standing in to make more fair
The loneliness unaltered of mankind.


## p. 7974 (#166) ###########################################

7974
JEAN INGELOW
“A frigate come to water: nuts would fall,
And nimble feet would climb the flower-Aushed strand,
While northern talk would ring, and therewithal
The martins would desire the cool north land.
« And all would be as it had been before:
Again at eve there would be news to tell;
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er,
(Gossip, how wags the world ? ' 'Well, gossip, well. " »
THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE
(1571)
T"
(
He 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, () Boston bells!
Play 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 naught of strange, beside
The flights 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 wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
«Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! ” calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
«Cusha! Cusha! » all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth
Floweth, floweth,


## p. 7975 (#167) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7975
From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking-song:-
« Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! ” calling,
“For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed. ”
If it be long, aye, long ago,
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;
And all the aire it seemeth mee
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby. '
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene;
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country-side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swannerds where their sedges are
Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The Brides of Mavis Enderby. '
Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows,
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.


## p. 7976 (#168) ###########################################

7976
JEAN INGELOW
They sayde, “And why should this thing be?
What danger lowers by land or sea ?
They ring the tune of Enderby'!
« For evil news from Mablethorpe
Of pyrate galleys warping down,
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne;
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring "The Brides of Enderby'? ”
(
I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main;
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again,
«Elizabeth! Elizabeth ! »
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. )
« The olde sea-wall (he cried) is dowie,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place. ”
He shook as one that looks on death:
“God save you, mother! ” straight he saith;
“Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? ”
“Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells beganne to play
Afar I heard her milking song. ”
He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left,—«Ho Enderby! ”
They rang (The Brides of Enderby'!
»
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;


## p. 7977 (#169) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7977
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout
Then beaten foam flew round about-
Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by;
I marked the lofty beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high —
A lurid mark and dread to see;
And awesome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang 'Enderby. '
They rang the sailor lads to guide,
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
And I — my sonne was at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
« O come in life, or come in death!
O lost! my love, Elizabeth. ”
And didst thou visit him no more ?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare!
The waters laid thee at his doore,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
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 breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.


## p. 7978 (#170) ###########################################

7978
JEAN INGELOW
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
« Cusha, Cusha, Cusha! ” calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
«Cusha, Cusha! » all along,
Where 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 more,
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver,
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
“Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed. ”
COLD AND QUIET
Cº
OLD, my dear, - cold and quiet.
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
“Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower -
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;
And when our children sleep,” she sighed, “at the dusk hour,
And when the lily blossoms, o come out to me! ”
Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest
Love is that which loseth least;


## p. 7979 (#171) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7979
Through the night-time while thou sleepest,
Still I watch the shrouded east.
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,
“Lost” is no word for such a love as mine;
Love from her past to me a present giveth,
And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth
That which was, and not in vain
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,
Love's last words atween us twain.
«Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me! ”
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.
LETTICE WHITE
From (Supper at the Mill)
M
Y NEIGHBOR White — we met to-day-
He always had a cheerful way,
As if he breathed at ease;
My neighbor White lives down the glade,
And I live higher, in the shade
Of my old walnut-trees.
So many lads and lasses small,
To feed them all, to clothe them all,
Must surely tax his wit:
I see his thatch when I look out;
His branching roses creep about,
And vines half smother it.
There white-haired urchins climb his eaves,
And little watch-fires heap with leaves,
And milky filberts hoard;
And there his oldest daughter stands
With downcast eyes and skillful hands
Before her ironing-board.
She comforts all her mother's days,
And with her sweet obedient ways
She makes her labor light;


## p. 7980 (#172) ###########################################

7980
JEAN INGELOW
So sweet to hear, so fair to see!
O, she is much too good for me,
That lovely Lettice White !
'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool!
With that same lass I went to school-
I then was great and wise;
She read upon an easier book,
And I-I never cared to look
Into her shy blue eyes.
And now I know they must be there,
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair
That will not raise their rim:
If maids be shy, he cures who can;
But if a man be shy - a man -
Why then, the worse for him!
.
a
My mother cries, “For such a lad
A wife is easy to be had,
And always to be found;
A finer scholar scarce can be,
And for a foot and leg,” says she,
«He beats the country round!
»
«My handsome boy must stoop his head
To clear her door whom he would wed. ”
Weak praise, but fondly sung!
« O mother! scholars sometimes fail
And what can foot and leg avail
To him that wants a tongue ?
When by her ironing-board I sit,
Her little sisters round me flit,
And bring me forth their store;
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,
And small sweet apples, bright of hue
And crimson to the core.
But she abideth silent, fair;
All shaded by her flaxen hair
The blushes come and go:
I look, and I no more can speak
Than the red sun that on her cheek
Smiles as he lieth low.


## p. 7981 (#173) ###########################################

JEAN INGELOW
7981
Sometimes the roses by the latch
Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
Come sailing down like birds;
When from their drifts her board I clear,
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
The shyly uttered words.
Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White
By daylight and by candlelight
When we two were apart.
Some better day come on apace,
And let me tell her face to face,
«Maiden, thou hast my heart. ”
How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored!
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White:
I'll e'en go sit again to-night
Beside her ironing-board!


## p. 7982 (#174) ###########################################

7982
BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN
1789-1862
a
NGEMANN was born in his father's parsonage on the little
island of Falster, Denmark, the 28th of May, 1789. He was
the youngest of nine children, an impressionable, sensitive
child, craving and needing the love lavished on him in his home. A
happy childhood, passed in beautiful country surroundings in close
touch with nature, developed in him a winning sympathetic temper-
ament, a sometimes almost womanly tenderness. Harshness or mis-
understanding wounded him deeply, and left,
as he himself said, “a shadow which even
the most radiant light of love and joy have
found it difficult to efface. ” The intensity
of the child's feelings showed itself in his
love for every living thing. When he was
given a present of a bird he “trembled
with excitement; as he put out his hands
for it he screamed with joy; when he held
the bird in his hand he dreamt of his
happiness; and his first thought when he
awoke in the morning was the happy cer-
tainty, I have my bird! He never found
another expression which more truly and
INGEMANN
strongly painted his joy at having con-
sciously awakened to the highest happi-
ness of his life than the childish words, I have my bird. ">
With a temperament like this, and growing into manhood at a
time when romanticism found its first and full expression in Oehlen-
schläger's tragedies, in the poetry of Heiberg, Hauch, and Hertz, it
is no wonder that Ingemann found it impossible to finish his law
course, and gave himself up unreservedly to his literary work. His
father had died when the boy was about ten years old, his mother
died before his University course was finished, he himself was not
strong in his early youth: his first collection of poems, published 1811,
is touched with the consequent depression, which found voice in
dreamy love and religious devotion. About this time he became
engaged to his future wife, Lucie Marie Mandix. In 1813 he published
Procne,' in 1814 The Black Knights, and in 1815 the tragedy

(


## p. 7983 (#175) ###########################################

BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN
7983
Blanca,' which took all sensitive hearts by storm. Heiberg, who had
a strong sense of humor, found the sentiment of Blanca' dangerously
near sentimentality, and made many a good joke over it.
In 1818 the government granted Ingemann a traveling stipend;
and during the year he spent abroad he seems to have awakened to
a fresher, fuller life and a more healthily balanced state of mind,
through which his warm heart suffered no loss, for he wrote home in
an outburst of enthusiasm: “God be praised that there is so much I
love. ” A collection of (Stories and Fairy Tales' (1820) showed great
intellectual development in him, and a decided talent as story-teller;
(Magnetism in the Barber Shop' (1821), a comedy after the manner of
Holberg, is among his best works.
He was made lecturer on the Danish language and literature at
the Academy of Sorö in 1822, and married that same year after an
eleven-years' engagement. In the quiet little academic town, with its
many historic memories of the past when Denmark was in the flush
of its power, Ingemann's impressionable temperament found its right
material. During the next twelve years he worked incessantly on his
historic poems and novels, the latter of which have given him his
importance in Danish literature. (Waldemar the Victorious' (1826),
(Erik Menved's Childhood' (1828), 'King Erik and the Outlaws) (1833),
Prince Otto of Denmark and his Time) (1835), are strong books.
Some of the historians shook their heads at this manner of turn-
ing history into romance, but to Ingemann it was no product of the
imagination; he wished them taken in full earnest, and he wrote
them in a natural, easy style, giving himself up altogether to what
he considered undoubtedly the life of the person he was depicting.
While he was planning one of these novels he wrote, “I wish I were
head over ears in the writing of it; only so am I happy. ” To him
his room stood full of knights and noble ladies who wished to speak
with him, and he gives himself fully to them, living with them, lov-
ing them, hating them, absorbed in the smallest details of their lives.
And the fact that behind the mighty armors of his brave knights,
and the sumptuous court gowns of his beautiful ladies, we always
recognize the author's own childlike smile, makes them perhaps all
the more sympathetic and dear to us. In much the same spirit he
wrote his Evening and Morning Songs, most of them embodied in
'
the Danish collection of church hymns. They were the simple, nat-
ural expression of the thoughts that might come to any child in the
early morning and evening hours, and there is hardly a Danish child
in city or country to whom they are not among the earliest inefface-
able memories.
After the death of Oehlenschläger (1850) Ingemann was decidedly
the favorite of the people, although none was more conscious than he
>


## p. 7984 (#176) ###########################################

7984
BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN
that the place of the great departed could not be filled. In 1852
he published “The Village Children, a novel in four parts. During
the last ten years of his life he wrote almost exclusively religious
poetry.
Those that made a pilgrimage to Sorö to see him generally found
him in his study, a large room on the ground floor opening directly
out into the garden; among the portraits on the wall were De la
Motte Fouqué (to whom he bore a strong intellectual resemblance),
Hoffmann, Schiller, etc. The host himself was of average height; a
cheerful genial man with a humorous twinkle in his eye, generally
puffing his study-pipe with evident enjoyment.
Ingemann is of course repeatedly called “the Danish Walter
Scott”; but unlike Scott, he always laid the weight on the leading
historic character of his novels. If Ingemann's novels should be
weighed in the scales of history and literature and found too light,
they will nevertheless always possess great importance as landmarks
in the progress of Danish culture.
CARL OF RISÉ AND THE KOHLMAN
From (Waldemar the Victorious)
T
I
WAS a clear starlight winter's night, when Carl of Risé
stopped his foaming steed at the foot of the Kohl. He had
asked in a neighboring village whether they knew the knight
Thord Knudsön, who also went by the name of Thord Knudsön
the peasant; but no one seemed to know him, and Carl began to
fear he was dead. When at length he asked with anxiety whether
any one had ever known the Kohlman, or whether it was long
since he was dead, the peasants stared at him with surprise, and
crossed themselves as they pointed to the top of the mountain.
« That fellow will never die,” they said: "he is either a goblin
or a wizard, and dwells in an enchanted tower on the top of the
Kohl. It was a godless deed,” they said, “to come near him,
especially at night, when he was wont to hold talk with witches
and all the devils in hell. ” Carl found that no money could pre-
vail on any of his informants to act the part of guide; he there-
fore pursued the way which the peasants had with some difficulty
been persuaded to point out, alone.
He soon came in sight of the dark round rock, which rose
proud and majestic out of the ocean.
He could not proceed
further on horseback, and looked in vain for a tree or bush to


## p. 7985 (#177) ###########################################

BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN
7985
a
c
which he might tie his charger; at last he spied a post on
heathery hill near the shore, to which he rode up and fastened
him. As Carl hastened up the steep he looked back at his horse,
and felt as though he had separated from a trusty companion;
and now for the first time it occurred to him that the post to
which he had tied his horse must have been a gibbet, for he
fancied he saw on the top of it a fleshless skull. An involuntary
shudder thrilled him, and he proceeded, now with slackened pace,
up the steep ascent towards a dark mass of stone, which on his
nearer approach he found to be a round tower, built of frag-
ments of the rock. « That must be the Seer's dwelling,” said
he, and called to mind the tower of Sæbygaard, and the figure
which he had seen gathering up papers from the flames. This
figure he had long identified in his own mind with the Bjerg-
*mand, who had appeared to him at Father Saxo's grave; and he
doubted not that this mysterious man was also the famous Seer
of the Kohl. He was now about to visit the singular being by
whom he had been menaced both awake and in his dreams; and
all the tales he had ever heard of wizards and enchanters now
revived in his memory. “Not for all the riches in the world
would I go on this errand for any other,” said he to himself.
“Yes, for my Rigmor,” he added; and as he uttered this beloved
name a sudden ray of hope flashed across his soul, and all his
anxiety vanished. "If she yet live,” he burst forth, "may not
this wonderful man be able to relieve my agony? He may tell
me where she is, and what I ought to do. ”
Carl redoubled his speed, and presently stood before a small
strongly secured door in the north side of the tower. He took
his sword, and knocked with the hilt against it. The sound was
echoed in the still night, but it was long before he saw any sign
of the tower being the abode of the living. At length he heard
a hoarse voice from above his head, which seemed to come from
an aperture in the wall. “Who art thou, presumptuous man? ”
croaked forth the voice. “What wouldst thou here, where death
sits on the threshold and hell gapes for its prey ? "
"Open the door, Sir Thord Knudsön; open the door, Sir
Knight,” said Carl. "I am a messenger from King Waldemar
the Victorious. ” "At last, at last,” said the hoarse voice. “Thou
comest late, Carl of Rise: the star is extinguished in the lion's
eye; the name of Waldemar the Victorious and his fortunes have
vanished like a meteor, and dimmed the Northern crown. ”
XIV-500


## p. 7986 (#178) ###########################################

7986
BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN
(
»
« Thou
Open the door, wise master Thord,” said Carl. “I have a
secret message for you from my lord the King, and must speak
with you in private. ”
“When I see the North Star over thine head must I open to
thee,” said the voice: “but if thou wilt hearken to my counsel,
Carl of Risé, hie thee hence: thou art come in an evil hour.
Death stands at thy side, and seeks his prey under my roof. He
asks not if we be old or young"
The hoarse voice was hushed, and Carl presently heard a
shrill female voice apparently in dispute with the old man in the
tower; and after a burst of wild laughter the same voice began
to sing a song, which froze the blood in the veins of the pious
knight. Carl understood only some few fearful words; but the
wild heart-rending tones seemed to come from a despairing and
distracted spirit, bidding defiance to Heaven and the Eternal
Judge. Carl now looked up at the sky, and perceived the North
Star directly over the tower.