 | The harp and plow |  |
MARCH.
Since Bryant touched his harp for thee,
And sang thee in his tuneful strains,
How feeble the attempt in me
To sing thy winds and chequered plains!
And sang thee in his tuneful strains,
How feeble the attempt in me
To sing thy winds and chequered plains!
But still thy airs so freely blown,
Awake an answering chord; to me
There 's music in thy piping tone,
Thy march is full of melody.
Awake an answering chord; to me
There 's music in thy piping tone,
Thy march is full of melody.
Thou call'st the rabbit from her lair,
And wonder beams in pussy's eyes;
O'er the flecked hill-side, wearing bare,
With thy mad winds a race she tries.
And wonder beams in pussy's eyes;
O'er the flecked hill-side, wearing bare,
With thy mad winds a race she tries.
Yonder the smoky column gray
Is wreathing from the leafless wood;
There the swart rustic boils away
The sugar-maple's limpid blood.
Is wreathing from the leafless wood;
There the swart rustic boils away
The sugar-maple's limpid blood.
There in his lonely camp he stays
And keeps his hermit fire a-glow;
And feels relieved when o'er him strays
The hailing, reconnoitering crow.
And keeps his hermit fire a-glow;
And feels relieved when o'er him strays
The hailing, reconnoitering crow.
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I mark yon early bird, and lone,
That plumes herself with idle bill,
Or tries a would-be merry tone
To soothe thy wild and wayward will.
That plumes herself with idle bill,
Or tries a would-be merry tone
To soothe thy wild and wayward will.
The squirrel peeps from out his cell
When haply Phœbus warms the sky,
And hastes his moody mate to tell
Glad days are coming by-and-by.
When haply Phœbus warms the sky,
And hastes his moody mate to tell
Glad days are coming by-and-by.
And they will come; e'en at thy heels
The lengthened hours of April tread;
The earth her bubbling springs unseals,
And verdure vivifies the dead.
The lengthened hours of April tread;
The earth her bubbling springs unseals,
And verdure vivifies the dead.
Wild month! thy storm-encircled ways
Mind me how good men's lives are past;
Clouds may begirt them all their days,
But sunshine glorifies at last.
Mind me how good men's lives are past;
Clouds may begirt them all their days,
But sunshine glorifies at last.
| The harp and plow | |