MARCH.

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis March and windy,

And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast,

And hark!— the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday,

Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast;

Louder and louder now the winds are wailing,

Faster and faster wings the frozen snow,

Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing,

As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro.

But see!— the sun above the clouds is creeping,

And look!— soft flakes are falling, one by one,

And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping,

While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done.

And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning,

Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills,

And hark!— the robin from the South returning,

Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills,

And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping,

Gathers the sap that sings a merry song,

While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping,

And noisy squirrels leap the trees among.