University of Virginia Library


305

MARCH.

“March hath unlocked stern Winter's chain.”—
Street.

First of the vernal Triad, March,
Blows, with distended cheek, his horn:
Above, there is a clouded arch,
Below, a landscape drear and lorn;
Dull mists are creeping up the hill,
Though the pale flag of Winter still
Is on its top displayed;
As yet no leaflet braves the cold,
Though, here and there, the watery mould
Sends up a grassy blade.
The keen and frosty air that blew
Howling across the brumal waste,
Gave to the cheek a rosy hue,
With lusty health each sinew braced;
But the damp breath of opening Spring,
Wafting distemper on its wing,
Pierces the frame unstrung;
A Reaper toils of ghastly brow,
The tolling bell is busy now,
Full many a dirge-note sung.
Inconstant month! at times thy hand,
Parting the curtains of the storm,
Gives promise that the dreary land
Will bask again in sunlight warm;
Thy barbarous strain hath pauses brief,
In which the heart derives relief
From a low, gentle lay,
Like the soft breathing of a flute,
When harsher instruments are mute,
Dying in air away.

306

From many a sugar-camp upcurls
Blue smoke above the maple boughs,
And shouting boys and laughing girls
Wild Echo from her covert rouse;
The syrup, golden in its flow,
Poured thickly on the hissing snow,
Enchains their eager eyes—
The month of March is dear to them,
Though, nodding lightly on the stem,
No violets arise.
Lakeward the swollen river rolls,
Encroaching on its barren shore;
The cry of lost, despairing souls
Seems mingling with its awful roar;
Huge ice-blocks, on its bosom borne,
Asunder, with a crash, are torn,
By ragged drift-wood smote;
The swain beholds, in wild dismay,
His stacks and fences swept away—
His drowning flock afloat.
The musk-rat from his reedy lair
Is driven by the rising tide,
For watcher keen a target fair,
Who shoots him by the river side.
Thus oft, with wave of wild mischance,
Man battles, while the straining glance
Is cheered by land ahead;
And finds, though rude the surf, too late,
Foes on the shore his landing wait
More pitiless and dread.
Though Winter was a tyrant stern,
He boasted brighter hours than these;
High did the roaring wood-fires burn,
And loud were New Year revelries;

307

The shout of boyhood filled our ears,
And bridges, built on crystal piers,
Rang as the skater passed;
By hoary sire and grandam old
Nightly around the hearth were told
Tales of the dreamy past.
A shadow on my heart is thrown
By the deep gloom that wraps the scene;
When will the blast forget to moan—
Earth wear again her mantle green?
The brooks call on the flowers to rise,
And paint their banks with varied dyes,
But call, alas! in vain:
Gray woods this mourning cry send forth—
“When will the singing birds come north,
And cheer our depths again?”
Oh, why repine! the fair and bright
Are in the lap of darkness born—
The tears of melancholy Night
Are jewels in the crown of Morn;
And March must wrestle with his foes,
The genii dread of clouds and snows,
Ere Nature's face is gay:
Then honor to the warrior grim,
For precious seeds are sown by him,
Though turbulent his sway.