MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL.

��METHOUGHT this herald month of Spring

Was wont a frown to wear, Or with capricious favor fling

Her gifts and bounties rare,

Even sometimes with a shrewish voice

Among the hills to rave, And check the aspiring buds that burst

Too soon their wintry grave.

But here, like patron, dressed in smiles,

The tinted turf she treads, And whispers to the humblest plants,

To lift their trembling heads,

And o er the lustrous laurel-hedge, And where the vine-leaf curls,

She bids the pendant dew-drops throw Their strings of braided pearls.

�� �