MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne, Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn, And harshly hymn thy early-closing day. Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn, Her bleak, grey garb:--yet not for _this_ we mourn, Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway, With festal viands, and Associates gay, Arm 'gainst the Skies;--nor _shun_ the piercing gale; But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair, Meet its rough breath;--and peep for primrose pale, Or lurking violet, under hedges bare; And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1] claim The thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame. 1: Lares, Hearth-Gods. SONNET LXXXVI. TO THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY[1]. Pride of Ierne's Sea-encircled bound, Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast, Magnificent Killarney!--from thy coast Tho' mountains rise with noblest woods embrown'd; Tho' ten-voiced Echos send the cannon's sound In thunders bursting the vast rocks around, Till startled Wonder and Delight exhaust In countless repercussion--Isles embost Upon thy liquid glass; their bloomy veil Sorbus and ārbutus;--yet not for thee So keenly wakes our local ecstacy, As o'er the narrow, barren, silent Dale, Where deeply sleeps, rude circling Rocks among, The Love-devoted Fount enamour'd PETRARCH sung. 1: This Sonnet was written on having read a description of the Killarney Scenery immediately after that of the Vale of Vaucluse, uncultivated and comparatively desert as the latter has been through more than the present Century. SONNET LXXXVII. TO A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED BY A GENTLEMAN CELEBRATED FOR HIS POETIC TALENTS. Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine, And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast! Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shine On that contrasting snow; shall see express'd Love's better omens, in the green hues dress'd Of this selected foliage.--Nymph, 't is thine The warning story on its leaves to find, Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind, And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phœbus' power Scorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foil His swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shore Shot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.-- Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun, Soon may his Spray's and VOTARY's lot be one. SONNET LXXXVIII. THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE. The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not _intirely_ taken from one of his letters.