“But like a river, blest where’er it flows,
Be still receiving while it still bestows.” 
“That life
Goes best with those who take it best.
—­it is well
For us to be as happy as we can!”

“Work is its own best earthly meed,
Else have we none more than the sea-born throng
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.”

The London press said:  “Miss Ingelow’s new volume exhibits abundant evidence that time, study, and devotion to her vocation have both elevated and welcomed the powers of the most gifted poetess we possess, now that Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide Proctor sing no more on earth.  Lincolnshire has claims to be considered the Arcadia of England at present, having given birth to Mr. Tennyson and our present Lady Laureate.”

The press of America was not less cordial.  “Except Mrs. Browning, Jean Ingelow is first among the women whom the world calls poets,” said the Independent.

The songs touched the popular heart, and some, set to music, were sung at numberless firesides.  Who has not heard the Sailing beyond Seas?

“Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig’s sails unfurled;
I said, ’I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world.’ 
I stepped aboard,—­we sailed so fast,—­
The sun shot up from the bourne;
But a dove that perched upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

O fair dove!  O fond dove! 
And dove with the white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

“My love!  He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, ’In this fair land,
O, is it thus we meet? 
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place,—­no part,—­
No dwelling more by sea or shore! 
But only in thy heart!’

O fair dove!  O fond dove! 
Till night rose over the bourne,
The dove on the mast as we sailed past,
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.”

Edmund Clarence Stedman, one of the ablest and fairest among American critics, says:  “As the voice of Mrs. Browning grew silent, the songs of Miss Ingelow began, and had instant and merited popularity.  They sprang up suddenly and tunefully as skylarks from the daisy-spangled, hawthorn-bordered meadows of old England, with a blitheness long unknown, and in their idyllic underflights moved with the tenderest currents of human life.  Miss Ingelow may be termed an idyllic lyrist, her lyrical pieces having always much idyllic beauty. High Tide, Winstanley, Songs of Seven, and the Long White Seam are lyrical treasures, and the author especially may be said to evince that sincerity which is poetry’s most enduring warrant.”

Winstanley is especially full of pathos and action.  We watch this heroic man as he builds the lighthouse on the Eddystone rocks:—­

  “Then he and the sea began their strife,
    And worked with power and might: 
   Whatever the man reared up by day
    The sea broke down by night.