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This while our noble king,
As to o’erwhelm it;
Bruised his helmet.
With such acts fill a pen,
TELLING THE BEES 1
HERE is the place ; right over the hill
Runs the path I took ;
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.
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
1 Note 17.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed,
To love, a year ;
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 bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before,
The house and the trees,
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened : the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
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,
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.
A WIND came up out of the sea,
It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
And hurried landward far
away, Crying, “ Awake! it is the day.”
It said unto the forest, “ Shout!
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And o'er the farms, “O chanticleer,
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,
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
BURLY, dozing humble-bee,
Insect lover of the sun,