 | Lyrical Poems |  |
129
A MARCH MINSTREL
I
Hail! once again, that sweet strong note!Loud on my loftiest larch,
Thou quaverest with thy mottled throat,
Brave minstrel of bleak March!
II
Hearing thee flute, who pines or grievesFor vernal smiles and showers?
Thy voice is greener than the leaves,
And fresher than the flowers.
III
Scorning to wait for tuneful MayWhen every throat can sing,
Thou floutest Winter with thy lay,
And art thyself the Spring.
130
IV
While daffodils, half mournful still,Muffle their golden bells,
Thy silvery peal o'er landscape chill
Surges, and sinks, and swells.
V
Across the unsheltered pasture floatsThe young lamb's shivering bleat:
There is no trembling in thy notes,
For all the snow and sleet.
VI
Let the bullace bide till frosts have ceased,The blackthorn loiter long;
Undaunted by the blustering east,
Thou burgeonest into song.
VII
Yet who can wonder thou dost dareConfront what others flee?
Thy carol cuts the keen March air
Keener than it cuts Thee.
VIII
The selfish cuckoo tarrieth tillApril repays his boast.
Thou, thou art lavish of thy trill,
Now when we need it most.
131
IX
The nightingale, while birds are coy,Delays to chant its grief.
Brave throstle! thou dost pipe for joy
With never a bough in leaf.
X
Even fond turtle-doves forbearTo coo till woods are warm:
Thou hast the heart to love and pair
Ere the cherry blossoms swarm.
XI
The skylark, fluttering to be heardIn realms beyond his birth,
Soars vainly heavenward. Thou, wise bird!
Art satisfied with earth.
XII
Thy home is not upon the ground,Thy hope not in the sky:
Near to thy nest thy notes resound,
Neither too low nor high.
XIII
Blow what wind will, thou dost rejoiceTo carol, and build, and woo.
Throstle! to me impart thy voice;
Impart thy wisdom too.
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