O thou new year, delaying long, ALFRED TENNYSON. MARCH. The stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, 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 gentler 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. 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 Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest form abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, W. C. BRYANT. APRIL. All day the low hung clouds have dropped All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped There has not been a sound to-day Of waving bough, or warbling bird, I could have half believed I heard For leafy thickness is not yet Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green. Sure, since I looked at early morn, These honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn Hath put forth larger studs; That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, The milk-white flowers revealing; Even now upon my senses first, Methinks their sweets are stealing The very earth, the steaming air, Is all with fragrance rife; And grace and beauty everywhere Are flushing into life. Down, down they come-those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops! A momentary deluge pours, Then thins, decreases, stops. And ere the dimples on the stream, But yet, behold! abrupt and loud, The fringes of her train. H. W. LONGFELLOW. THE CROCUS. I pluckt a crocus yestermorn From the Athenæum. And placed it in a poet's page- Within its snowy hermitage; But left the promise that it brought ! In that sweet season of the year, Ere April leaves her rainbow-bower, And windy March is husht to hear Her footsteps in the distant shower, And where the withered crocus lies," A song it does me good to lore: A hinted odor that will stay A little melancholy dower Yet all the fortune of the flower! Believe, the flower thro' snow and wind The poet passed and left behind Those hints of unperfected thought: The poet and the flower achieved B. ar, ; hat lie past, ast! read mead ant dyes, ligh supply, rest rove, e, le! d, Feast, hower, Fer, ife d life! r, Scattering wreaths of ours sweet, Hail'st the swallow's wing once more. The eglantine, the hawthorn bright, Guests, fair April, worthy thee. The nightingale-sweet hidden sound! 'Tis to thy return we owe Love's fond sighs, that learn to glow After winter's chilling reign Long has bound them in her chain. May may boast her ripened hues, Still a chosen month for me. * Translation of MISS COSTELLO. REMI BELLEAU, 1528-1577. ODE TO FIRST OF APRIL. Mindful of disaster past, And shrinking at the northern blast, The sleety storm returning still, The morning hoar, and evening chill, Reluctant comes the timid spring. Scarce a bee, with airy ring, Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around, That clothe the garden's southern bound; Scarce a sickly, straggling flower Decks the rough castle's rifted tower; |