Spread around thy tend’rest diligence In ploughing spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb, Tottering with weakness by his mother’s side, Feels the fresh world about him, and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet; Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all The innum’rous ills that rush around his life! Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone, Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain! Observe the larking crows! beware the brake, There the sly wolf the careless minute waits! Nor trust thy neighbor’s dog, nor earth nor sky; Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide! Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam O’er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey Alights, and hops in many turns around, And tires her, also turning; to her aid Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms, Gently convey to the warm cote; and oft, Between the lark’s note and the nightingale’s His hungry bleating still with tepid milk; In this soft office may thy children join, And charitable habits learn in sport; Nor yield him to himself, ere the vernal airs Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers. Another most agreeable token of the arrival of Spring is, that the bees, “Pilgrims of Summer, who do bow the knee At every shrine,” begin to venture out of their hives about the middle of this month. As their food is the honey-like juice found in the tubes of flowers, their coming abroad is a certain indication of the approach of Spring. No creature seems possessed of a greater power of foreseeing the weather; so that their appearance in the morning may be reckoned a sure token of a fine day. The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb, Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time. Bees stroke their little legs across their wings, And venture short flights where the snow-drop brings Its silver bell, and winter aconite, Its buttercup-like flowers, that shut at night, With green leaf furling round its cup of gold, Like tender maiden muffled from the cold; They sip, and find their honey-dreams are vain, Then feebly hasten to their hives again. The butterflies, by eager hopes undone, Glad as a child come out to greet the sun; Beneath the shadow of a sudden shower, Are lost—nor see to-morrow’s April flower. The gardens are now beginning to be studded by the crocus— “The flower of Hope, whose hue Is bright with coming joy,”