Farm Notes

BY VM. C. BBYANT. Far back in ages The plow with wreaths was orowued, The hands of kings and sages Entwined the chaplets round, Till men of spoil Disdained the toil By which tho world was uomïshed, And blood and pillage were the soil In which their laurels flourished. Now tha world her fault de6pairs - The guilt that stains her story, And weeps her crimes annd the cares That form her earliest glory. The throne shall crumble, The diadem shall wane, The tribes of earth shall huinble The pride of those who reign And war shall lay His pomp away ; The fame that héroes cherish The glory earned in deadly fray Shall fade, de;ay and perisli. Honor waits o'er all the oarth, Through endless generations, The art that calis the harvest forth, And feeds the expectant uatious.