O thou new year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat of song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MARCH.

The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee!
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

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,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.

W. C. BRYANT.

APRIL.

All day the low hung clouds have dropped
Their garnered fullness down;

All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped
Hill, valley, grove, and town.

There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life or living creature;

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing-

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.

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,
Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber light.

But yet, behold! abrupt and loud,
Comes down the glittering rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,

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-
A tiny prophet, newly born

Within its snowy hermitage;
And all the hushed winter day
It breath'd its little life away,
And faded like a tone of thought-

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,
I pluckt it, where it seemed at strife.
To vindicate a hermit's life,
And caught within a lonely place
The coming summer on its face!

And where the withered crocus lies,"
Among the rhymes my poet wore,
Soft memories emparadise

A song it does me good to lore:

A hinted odor that will stay
Whene'er I lift the flower away,

A little melancholy dower

Yet all the fortune of the flower!

Believe, the flower thro' snow and wind
Fulfilled the promise that it brought;"

The poet passed and left behind

Those hints of unperfected thought:

The poet and the flower achieved
The little end for which they lived.-
For Beauty's sake, believe, content.
To die in its accomplishment.

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Scattering wreaths of ours sweet,
For her snowy bosom meet!
April, full of smiles and grace,
Drawn from Venus' dwelling-place;
Thou, from earth's enamel'd plain,
Yield'st the gods their breath again.
"Tis thy courteous hand doth bring
Back the messenger of spring;
And his tedious exile o'er,

Hail'st the swallow's wing once more.

The eglantine, the hawthorn bright,
The thyme and pink, and jasmine white,
Don their purest robes to be

Guests, fair April, worthy thee.

The nightingale-sweet hidden sound!
'Midst the clustering boughs around,
Charms to silence notes that wake
Soft discourse from bush and brake,
And bids every listening thing
Pause awhile to hear her sing.

'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.
"Tis thy smile to being warms
All the busy, shining swarms,
Which, on perfumed pillage bent,
Fly from flower to flower intent,
Till they load their golden thighs
With the treasure each supplies.

May may boast her ripened hues,
Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews,
And those glowing charms that well
All the happy world can tell;
But, sweet April, thou shalt be

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;