TO MY SISTER.

Written at a small distance from my House, and fent by my little Boy.

It is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before,
The red-breaft fings from the tall larch
That ftands befide our door.

There is a bleffing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grafs in the green field.

My Sifter! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,

Make hafte, your morning task refign;
Come forth and feel the fun.

Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is ftealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth : -It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reafon :

Our minds fhall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some filent laws our hearts may make,
Which they shall long obey :
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the bleffed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our fouls: They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sifter! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

I