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!”

J.G.  WHITTIER.

Katie.

  It may be through some foreign grace,
  And unfamiliar charm of face;
  It may be that across the foam
  Which bore her from her childhood’s home,
  By some strange spell, my Katie brought
  Along with English creeds and thought—­
  Entangled in her golden hair—­
  Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! 
  I cannot tell,—­but here to-day,
  A thousand billowy leagues away
  From that green isle whose twilight skies
  No darker are than Katie’s eyes,
  She seems to me, go where she will,
  An English girl in England still!

  I meet her on the dusty street,
  And daisies spring about her feet;
  Or, touched to life beneath her tread,
  An English cowslip lifts its head;
  And, as to do her grace, rise up
  The primrose and the buttercup! 
  I roam with her through fields of cane,
  And seem to stroll an English lane,
  Which, white with blossoms of the May,
  Spreads its green carpet in her way! 
  As fancy wills, the path beneath
  Is golden gorse, or purple heath;
  And now we hear in woodlands dim
  Their unarticulated hymn,
  Now walk through rippling waves of wheat,
  Now sink in mats of clover sweet,
  Or see before us from the lawn
  The lark go up to greet the dawn! 
  All birds that love the English sky
  Throng round my path when she is by;
  The blackbird from a neighboring thorn
  With music brims the cup of morn,
  And in a thick, melodious rain
  The mavis pours her mellow strain! 
  But only when my Katie’s voice
  Makes all the listening woods rejoice
  I hear—­with cheeks that flush and pale—­
  The passion of the nightingale!

H. TIMROD.

My Love.

  Not as all other women are
  Is she that to my soul is dear;
  Her glorious fancies come from far,
  Beneath the silver evening-star,
  And yet her heart is ever near.

  Great feelings hath she of her own,
  Which lesser souls may never know;
  God giveth them to her alone,
  And sweet they are as any tone
  Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

  Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
  Although no home were half so fair;
  No simplest duty is forgot;
  Life hath no dim and lowly spot
  That doth not in her sunshine share.

  She doeth little kindnesses,
  Which most leave undone, or despise;
  For naught that sets one heart at ease,
  And giveth happiness or peace,
  Is low-esteemed in her eyes.