And, 'neath Herne's oak, for Shake- | Poured here in vain ;- that sturdy blood Was meant to make the earth more green,

speare's sight,

Strewed moss and grass with diamonds
bright.

No fairies in the Mayflower came,
And, lightsome as I sparkle here,
For Mother Bay State, busy dame,

But in a higher, gentler mood
Than broke this April noon serene;
Two graves are here: to mark the place,
At head and foot, an unhewn stone,
O'er which the herald lichens trace

I've toiled and drudged this many a The blazon of Oblivion.

year,

Throbbed in her engines' iron veins,
Twirled myriad spindles for her gains.

I, too, can weave: the warp I set Through which the sun his shuttle throws,

And, bright as Noah saw it, yet

For you the arching rainbow glows, A sight in Paradise denied

To unfallen Adam and his bride.

When Winter held me in his grip,
You seized and sent me o'er the wave,
Ungrateful in a prison-ship;

But I forgive, not long a slave,
For, soon as summer south-winds blew,
Homeward I fled, disguised as dew.

For countless services I'm fit,

Of use, of pleasure, and of gain,
But lightly from all bonds I flit,

Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain;
From mill and wash-tub I escape,
And take in heaven my proper shape.

So, free myself, to-day, elate

I come from far o'er hill and mead, And here, Cochituate's envoy, wait

To be your blithesome Ganymede, And brim your cups with nectar true That never will make slaves of you.

LINES

What then? With heart and hand they
wrought,

According to their village light;
'T was for the Future that they fought,

SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO Their rustic faith in what was right.

ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD

BATTLE-GROUND.

THE same good blood that now refills
The dotard Orient's shrunken veins,
The same whose vigor westward thrills,
Bursting Nevada's silver chains,
Poured here upon the April grass,
Freckled with red the herbage new ;
On reeled the battle's trampling mass,
Back to the ash the bluebird flew.

Upon earth's tragic stage they burst
Unsummoned, in the humble sock;
Theirs the fifth act; the curtain first
Rose long ago on Charles's block.

Their graves have voices; if they threw
Dice charged with fates beyond their
ken,

Yet to their instincts they were true,
And had the genius to be men.

Half turns her face, half smiles through | Leads all his shivering lambs to one sure

Intent on manna still and mortal ends, | Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, And gently waits the miller's will.

Sees it not, neither hears its thundered