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This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French bost did ding,

As to o’erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

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With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!

Michael Drayton.

TELLING THE BEES 1

HERE is the place ; right over the hill

Runs the path I took ;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,

And the poplars tall ; And the barr'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'errun,

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 glow8,

And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;

And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside Farm.

1 Note 17.

a

I mind me how with a lover's care

From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,

And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed,

To love, a year ;
Down through the beeches I looked 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,

The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,

The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,

Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall,

Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,

Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened : the summer sun

Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one

Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps

For the dead to-day :

Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps

The fret and the pain of his age away.”

But her dog whined low ; on the doorway sill,

With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still

Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since

In my ear sounds on :“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence ! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!

John Greenleaf Whittier.

DAYBREAK

A WIND came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far

away, Crying, “ Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “ Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

And o'er the farms, “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

v

It whispered to the fields of corn, * Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”

It shouted through the belfry-tower, “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, “ Not yet! in quiet lie."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE HUMBLE-BEE

BURLY, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek ;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone !
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines ;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere ;
Swimmer through the waves of air ;
Voyager of light and noon;

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