THE FIRST OF MARCH.
THE bud is on the bough,
And the leaf is in the bud,
And Earth's beginning now
In her veins to feel the blood,
Which, warm'd by summer's sun
In th' alembic of the vine,
From her founts will overrun
In a ruddy gush of wine.
The perfume and the bloom,
That shall decorate the flower,
Are quickening in the gloom
Of their subterranean bower;
And the juices meant to feed
Trees, vegetables, fruits,
Unerringly proceed
To their preappointed roots.
How awful is the thought
Of the wonders under ground, Of the mystic changes wrought In the silent, dark profound; How each thing upwards tends By necessity decreed,
And a world's support depends
On the shooting of a seed!
The Summer's in her ark,
And this sunny-pinion'd day
Is commission'd to remark
Whether Winter holds her sway.
Go back, thou dove of peace,
With the myrtle on thy wing,
Say that floods and tempests cease,
And the world is ripe for Spring.
Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth,
Till her dreams are all of flowers,
And the waters look in mirth
For their overhanging bowers;
The forest seems to listen
For the rustle of its leaves,
And the very skies to glisten
In the hope of summer eves.
Thy vivifying spell
Has been felt beneath the wave,
By the dormouse in its cell,
And the mole within its cave;
And the summer tribes that creep,
Or in air expand their wing,
Have started from their sleep,
At the summons of the Spring.
The cattle lift their voices
From the valleys and the hills, And the feathered race rejoices With a gush of tuneful bills; And if this cloudless arch
Fills the poet's song with glee, O! thou sunny first of March, Be it dedicate to thee!
TO THE DAISY.
A NUN demure, of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten or defy,
That thought comes next, and instantly
The freak is over;
The freak will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar;
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest;
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee.
Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast;
Sweet, silent creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature.
Now Summer is in flower, and Nature's hum
Is never silent round her bounteous bloom;
Insects, as small as dust, have never done
With glitt'ring dance, and reeling in the sun;
And green wood fly and blossom-haunting bee
Are never weary of their melody.
Round field and hedge flowers in full glory twine, Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak'd woodbine,
That lift athirst their slender-throated flowers,
Agape for dew-falls, and for honey-showers;
These o'er each bush in sweet disorder run,
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.
The mottled spider, at eve's leisure, weaves
His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,
Which every morning meet the poet's eye,
Like fairies' dew-wet dresses hung to dry.
The wheat swells into ear, and hides below
The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,
Leaving, a school-boy's height, in snugger rest,
The leveret's seat, and lark, and partridge nest.
CLARE.
NOT Iris, in her pride and braverie,
Adornes her arch with such varietie;
Nor doth the milk-white way,
Appeare so fair and beautiful in sight;
As doe these fields and groves, and sweeter bowres, Bestrew'd, and deckt with partie-coloured flowres.
Along the bubbling brookes, and silver glyde,
That at the bottom doth in silence slyde,
The waterie flowres, and lillies on the bankes,
Like blazing comets, burgeon all in rankes :
Under the hawthorn, and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be:
The primrose, and the purple hyacinth,
The daintie violet, and wholesome minthe,
The double daisie, and the couslipe, queene
Of summer flowres, do overpeere the greene:
And round about the valley as ye passe,
Ye may no see, for peeping flowres, the grasse.
G. PEELE, 1584.
HARK! how merrily, from distant tower,
Ring round the village bells; now on the gale
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;
Anon they die upon the pensive ear,
Melting in faintest music. They bespeak
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear,
Commixt along the unfrequented shore,
The sound of village dance and tabor loud,
Startling the musing ear of solitude.
Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,
When happy superstition, gabbling eld,
Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day,
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve
Commence the harmless rites and auguries;
And many a tale of ancient days goes round.
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells
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