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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.
�� �
