She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson

*120*

TELLING THE BEES.

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 barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the bee-hives 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 glows
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.

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 brook-side 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 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:-

66 Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

John G. Whittier.

Flower in the crannied wall,

I pluck you out of the crannies ;-
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower-but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all
I should know what God and man is.

Alfred Tennyson.

*

122.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD.

Some will talk of bold Robin Hood,

And some of barons bold;

But I'll tell you how he served the bishop of Hereford, When he robbed him of his gold.

As it befel in merry Barnsdale,

All under the greenwood tree,

The bishop of Hereford was to come by,

With all his company.

"Come kill me a ven'son," said bold Robin Hood,
"Come kill me a good fat deer;

The bishop of Hereford is to dine with me to-day,
And he shall pay well for his cheer."

"We'll kill a fat ven'son," said bold Robin Hood,
"And dress it by the highway side;

And we will watch the bishop narrowly,
Lest some other way he should ride."

Robin Hood dressed himself in shepherd's attire, With six of his men also;

And, when the bishop of Hereford came by,

They about the fire did

go.

"O what is the matter?" then said the bishop, "Or for whom do you make this ado?

Or why do you kill the king's ven'son,
When your company is so few?

"We are shepherds," said bold Robin Hood,
"And we keep sheep all the year,

And we are disposed to be merry this day,
And to kill of the king's fat deer."

"You are brave fellows," said the bishop, "And the king of your doings shall know ; Therefore make haste and come along with me, For before the king you shall go."

"O pardon, O pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "O pardon, I thee pray!

For it becomes not your lordship's coat

To take so many lives away."

"No pardon, no pardon," said the bishop,

"No pardon I thee owe;

Therefore make haste and come along with me,

For before the king you shall go."

Then Robin set his back against a tree,
And his foot against a thorn,

And from underneath his shepherd's coat.
He pulled out a bugle horn.

He put the little end to his mouth,

And a loud blast did he blow,

Till three score and ten of bold Robin's men
Came running all in a row.

All making obeisance to bold Robin Hood; 'Twas a comely sight for to see.

"What is the matter, master?" said Little John, "That you blow so hastily?"

"O here is the bishop of Hereford,

And no pardon we shall have :

"Cut off his head, master," said Little John,

"And throw him into his grave."

"O pardon, O pardon," said the bishop, "O pardon, I thee pray!

For if I had known it had been you,

I'd have gone some other way."

"No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "No pardon I thee owe;

Therefore make haste and come along with me
For to merry Barnsdale you shall go."

Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand,
And led him to merry Barnsdale;

He made him to stay and sup with him that night,
And to drink wine, beer, and ale.

"Call in a reckoning," said the bishop,

"For methinks it grows wondrous high:

"Lend me your purse, master, "said Little John, "And I'll tell you by and by."

Then Little John took the bishop's cloak,

And spread it upon the ground,

And out of the bishop's portmanteau

He took three hundred pound.

"Here's money enough, master," said Little John, "And a comely sight 'tis to see;

It makes me in charity with the bishop,
Though he heartily loveth not me."