In groves where once ye used to sing, In orchards where ye had your birth, A thousand glittering axes swing To smite the trees to earth. Ye love the fields by ploughman trod; But there, when sprouts the beechen spray, The soldier only breaks the sod To hide the slain away. Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky; Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, Nor yelling winds that with them fly; Nor let them fright you back,-- Back to the stifling battle-cloud, To burning towns that blot the day, And trains of mounting dust that shroud The armies on their way. Stay, for a tint of green shall creep Soon o'er the orchard's grassy floor, And from its bed the crocus peep Beside the housewife's door. Here build, and dread no harsher sound, To scare you from the sheltering tree, Than winds that stir the branches round And murmur of the bee. And we will pray, that, ere again The flowers of autumn bloom and die, Our generals and their strong-armed men May lay their weapons by. Then may ye warble, unafraid, Where hands, that wear the fetter now, Free as your wings shall ply the spade, And guide the peaceful plough. Then, as our conquering hosts return, What shouts of jubilee shall break From placid vale and mountain stern And shore of mighty lake! And midland plain and ocean-strand Shall thunder: "Glory to the brave, Peace to the torn and bleeding land, And freedom to the slave!" MARCH, 1864. WET-WEATHER WORK. BY A FARMER. VII. In these notes upon the Farm-Writers and the Pastorals, I have endeavored to keep a certain chronologic order; and upon this wet morning I find myself embayed among those old gentlemen who lived in the latter part of the eighteenth century. George III. is tottering under his load of royalty; the French Revolution is all asmoke. Fox and Sheridan and Burke and the younger Pitt are launching speeches at this Gallic tempest of blood,--each in his own way. Our American struggle for liberty has been fought bravely out; and the master of it has retired to his estates upon the Potomac. There, in his house at Mount Vernon, he receives one day a copy of the early volumes of Young's "Annals of Agriculture," with the author's compliments, and the proffer of his services to execute orders for seeds, implements, cattle, or "anything else that might contribute to the General's rural amusements." The General, in his good old-fashioned way, returns the compliments with interest, and says, "I will give you the trouble, Sir, of providing and sending to the care of Wakelin Welch, of London, merchant, the following articles:--