THE MAYFLOWERS.

The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their first fearful winter.

SAD Mayflower! watch'd by winter stars,
And nursed by winter gales,
With petals of the sleeted spars,
And leaves of frozen sails!

What had she in those dreary hours,
Within her ice-rimm❜d bay,

In common with the wild-wood flowers,
The first sweet smiles of May ?

Yet-"God be praised!" the Pilgrim said,
Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,-
"Behold our Mayflower here!"

"God wills it: here our rest shall be,
Our years of wandering o'er,
For us the Mayflower of the sea,
Shall spread her sails no more."

Oh! sacred flowers of faith and hope!
As sweetly now as then

Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
In many a pine-dark glen.

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length,
Unchanged, your leaves unfold,
Like love behind the manly strength
Of the brave hearts of old.

So live the fathers in their sons,
Their sturdy faith be ours,
And ours the love that overruns
Its rocky strength with flowers!

The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day
Its shadow round us draws;

The Mayflower of his stormy bay-
Our Freedom's struggling cause.

But warmer suns ere long shall bring
To life the frozen sod:

And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring
Afresh the flowers of God!

BURIAL OF BARBOUR.*

BEAR him, comrades! to his grave;
Never over one more brave

Shall the prairie grasses weep,

In the ages yet to come,
When the millions in our room
What we sow in tears shall reap.

Bear him up the icy hill,
With the Kansas, frozen still
As his noble heart, below,-

And the land he came to till
With a freeman's thews and will,
And his poor hut roof'd with snow!

One more look of that dead face,
Of his murder's ghastly trace!

One more kiss, oh, widow'd one!
Lay your left hands on his brow,
Lift your right hands up, and vow
That his work shall yet be done.

Patience, friends! The eye of God
Every path by Murder trod

Watches, lidless, day and night;
And the dead man in his shroud,
And his widow weeping loud,

And our hearts, are in his sight.
*See Note 14.

Every deadly threat that swells
With the roar of gambling hells,
Every brutal jest and jeer,
Every wicked thought and plan
Of the cruel heart of man,

Though but whisper'd, He can hear!

We in suffering, they in crime,
Wait the just award of time,

Wait the vengeance that is due;
Not in vain a heart shall break,
Not a tear for Freedom's sake
Falls unheeded: God is true.

While the flag with stars bedeck'd

Threatens where it should protect,

And while Law shakes hands with Crime,

What is left us but to wait,

Match our patience to our fate,

And abide the better time?

Patience, friends! the human heart
Everywhere shall take our part,
Everywhere for us shall pray;
On our side are Nature's laws,
And God's life is in the cause
That we suffer for to-day.

Well to suffer is divine;

Pass the watchword down the line,
Pass the countersign: "ENDURE!"

Not to him who rashly dares,
But to him who nobly bears,

Is the victor's garland sure.

Frozen earth to frozen breast,
Lay our slain one down to rest,

Lay him down in hope and faith;

And above the broken sod,

Once again, to Freedom's God,

Pledge ourselves for life or death:

That the State whose walls we lay,
In our blood and tears, to-day,
Shall be free from bonds of shame;
And our goodly land untrod
By the feet of Slavery-shod
With cursing as with flame!
Plant the Buckeye on his grave,
For the hunter of the slave

In its shadow can not rest;
And let martyr mound and tree
Be our pledge and guarantee
Of the freedom of the West!

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord He come
To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,
An' we ob jubilee.

De Lord dat heap de Red-Sea waves

He jus’ as ’trong as den ;

He say de word: we las' night slaves ;
To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber

De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone;
He leaf de land behind:

De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;

We sell de pig, we sell de cow,

But nebber chile be sold.

you

hear

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber

De driver blow his horn!

you

hear

We pray de Lord: He gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;
De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild-duck to de sea;

We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;

De rice-bird mean it when he sing,

De eagle when he scream.

De

yam will
grow,
de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail,
An' nebber lie de word;

So like de 'postles in de jail,
We waited for de Lord:
An' now He open ebery door,
An' trow away de key;

He tink we lub Him so before,

We lub Him better free.

De yam will grow,

de cotton blow,

He'll gib de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE,

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand,
Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,

H