We pray de Lord: He gib us signs We tink it when de church-bell ring, De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you De driver blow his horn! We know de promise nebber fail, He tink we lub Him so before, We lub Him better free. De yam will grow, hear de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Up from the meadows rich with corn, The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand, Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, H On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, Over the mountains winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun In her attic-window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouch'd hat left and right It shiver'd the window-pane and sash, 66 Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag!" she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirr'd "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long that free flag toss'd Peace and order and beauty draw ICHABOD. So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray For evermore! hairs gone Revile him not !—the Tempter hath And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, O! dumb be passion's stormy rage, Have lighted up and led his age, Scorn! Would the angels laugh, to mark Let not the land, once proud of him, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, But let its humbled sons, instead, A long lament, as for the dead, Of all we loved and honour'd, nought Save A fallen angel's pride of thought, All else is gone; from those great eyes When faith is lost, when honour dies, Then, pay the reverence of old days Walk backward, with averted gaze, TELLING THE BEES.* HERE is the place; right over the hill You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. *See Note 15. There is the house, with the gate red-barr'd, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'er-run, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings, of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, I mind me how with a lover's care I brush'd off the burrs, and smooth'd my hair, Since we parted, a month had pass'd, To love, a year; Down through the beeches I look'd at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. I can see it all now,-the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, Just the same as a month before, The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,- Before them, under the garden wall, |