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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."

C

COLD AND QUIET

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;

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.

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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;

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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!

7982

BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN

1789-1862

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 temperament, a sometimes almost womanly tenderness. Harshness or mis

INGEMANN

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 certainty, 'I have my bird!' He never found another expression which more truly and strongly painted his joy at having consciously 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 Oehlenschläger'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

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