March

Ttaere are no flow'rets in thy lap, O wild, bleak March ! No softness in the changeful skies That o'er thee arch ; For Winter, as he passed away, Mid waillngs low, Let f all a mautle o'er thy form Oí glitt'ring ?now. A surlv cliild art thou Ín our New" England clime ; Though poets cali thee Spring, thou'rtsweet Alone ín rhyme. Would I could ivilh the swullow fly, VVhcn 6ummer'3 o'er, Where orange blossoms sccnt the air, i From thls ehill shore ; Where thou art crown'd with lilac-buds Aml glad as dawn, And flinging golden butter-cups Upon thelawn; And yet I'd, like the blue-blrd, seek My northern nest, When thou wcrt slceping peaccfully On earth's green breast. I thank God for a warm, bright hearth, While March is sighing And shiv'ring o'er a new-made grave, Where Winter'9 lyiug. Wild winds, affoctions pure and warm Ye cannot chili ; Aud ohl the sunniest clime is where Belov'd ones dweil.