MARCH. THE storiny March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies, I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak, For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. H Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty hides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies. And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. SONNET TO Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. AN INDIAN STORY. "I KNOW where the timid fawn abides Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, "I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook. "And that timid fawn starts not with fear And that young May violet to me is dear, Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills. He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, With the early carol of many a bird, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall lie. The hollow woods, in the setting sun, And Maquon's sylvan labours are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way. He stops near his bower-his eye perceives At once to the earth his burden he heaves, He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, And gains its door with a bound. |