 | Poems |  |
97
MARCH.
The ravaged fields, waste, colourless, and bleak,
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
Retreating Winter leaves, with angry frown,
And lingering on the distant snow-streaked hills,
Displays the motley remnants of his reign.
With shouldered spade, the labourer to the field
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
Thy hearth still blazes, and the sounding strings,
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
Hies, joyful that the softened glebe gives leave
To toil; no more his children cry for bread,
Or, shivering, crowd around the scanty fire;
No more he's doomed, reluctant, to receive
The pittance, which the rich man proudly gives,
Who, when he gives, thinks heaven itself obliged.
Vain man! think not there's merit in the boon,
If, quitting not one comfort, not one joy,
The sparkling wine still circles round thy board,
98
Blent with the voice symphonious, charm thine ear.
The redbreast now, at morn, resumes his song,
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
And larks, high soaring, wing their spiral flight,
While the light-hearted ploughboy singing, blythe,
The broom, the bonny broom of Cowdenknows,
Fills with delight the wandering townsman's ear;
May be, though carolled rude in artless guise,
Sad Flodden field, of Scotia's lays most sweet,
Most mournful, dims, with starting tear, his eye.
Nor silent are the upland leas; cheerily
The partridge now her tuneless call repeats,
Or, bursting unexpected from the brake,
Startles the milkmaid singing o'er the ridge.
Nor silent are the chilly leafless woods;
The thrush's note is heard amid the grove,
Soon as the primrose, from the withered leaves
Smiling, looks out: Rash floweret! oft betrayed,
By summer-seeming days, to venture forth
Thy tender form,—the killing northern blast,
Will wrap thee lifeless in a hoar-frost shroud.
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