De Lord spoke to Gabriel:
Say, go look behind de altar,
Take down de silver trumpet,
Go down to de sea-side,

Place one foot on de dry land,
Place de oder on de sea,
Raise your hand to heaven,
Declare by your Maker,
Dat time shall be no longer,

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Blow your trumpet, Gabriel.
Lord, how loud shall I blow it?
Blow it right calm and easy,
Do not alarm my people,
Tell dem to come to judgment,

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Gabriel, blow your trumpet.
Lord, how loud shall I blow it?
Loud as seven peals of thunder,
Wake de sleepin' nations.
Den you see poor sinner risin',
See de dry bones a creepin',

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Den you see de world on fire,
You see de moon a bleedin',

See de stars a fallin',
See de elements meltin',

See de forked lightnin',

Hear de rumblin' thunder.

SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOT

Он, de good ole chariot swing so low,-
I don't want to leave me behind.
O swing low, sweet chariot,
Swing low, sweet chariot,

I don't want to leave me behind.

Oh, de good ole chariot will take us all

home,

I don't want to leave me behind. Swing low, sweet chariot, etc.

The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores

This Princess of the air; The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, “Ah! come, lest I despair;"

The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns Quiver and thrill within,

As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch

Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see

The wreaths of golden bloom,

Brought in from the far woods with eager haste

To deck the poorest room,

The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands

Give sprays to all they meet,

Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,

And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green
Which may not fall nor fade,

Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
With leaves of fresher shade;

The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
Their fragrant work begin:

The spring has come - has come to Florida, With yellow jessamine.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE Woolson

THE PETRIFIED FERN

IN a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night, and
crowned it,

But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

ocean;

Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,

Covered it, and hid it safe away.

Oh the long, long centuries since that day!

Oh the agony, oh life's bitter cost,

Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man

Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

MARY BOLLES BRANCH

And the blackbird on the hedge in the

golden sunset glow

Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below;

And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen,

And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green!

For 't is green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray,

And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day;

Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall,

And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all.

There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set

A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet;

Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow,

And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below.

And it's there the earth is merry, like a young thing newly made

Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in the glade,

Babbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds piled,

Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a child.

When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! —

Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear

Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the year!

MARY ELIZAbeth Blake

THE WILLIS

THE Willis are out to-night, In the ghostly pale moonlight, With robes and faces white.

Swiftly they circle round, And make not any sound, Nor footprint on the ground.

The forest is asleep;
All things that fly or creep
A death-like silence keep.

A fear is over all;

From spectral trees and tall
The gathering night-dews fall.

Moveless are leaf and limb,
While through the forest dim
Slow glides a figure slim.

A figure slim and fair,
With loosened, streaming hair,
Watching the Willis there!

"These are the ghosts," she said, "Of hapless ones unwed,

Who loved and now are dead."

Her hair was drenched with dew; The moonlight shimmered through, And showed its raven hue.

"Each one of these," she cried, "Or ever she was a bride, For love's sake sinned and died."

"I come," she said, "I too;
Ye are by one too few,"
And joined the phantom crew.

Swiftly they circled round,
Nor was there any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.

DAVID LAW PROUDFIT