Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life. Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart; The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, That light upon the fields in early spring, Making them greener. In its milder hours, The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen The glorious bloom of June, and in the note Of early bird, that comes a messenger From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard The choir that fills the summer woods with song. Now be the hours that yet remain to thee Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, That inextinguishably dwell within Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light To the most desolate moments, like the glow Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; And kindly words and offices of good Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates Of a more genial season, and thy path Be lost to human eye among the bowers And living fountains of a brighter land. _March_, 1855. AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. Already, close by our summer dwelling, The Easter sparrow repeats her song; A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms-- The idle blossoms that sleep so long. The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches, A hymn to welcome the budding year. The south wind wanders from field to forest, And softly whispers, "The Spring is here." Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Before those lays from the elm have ceased; The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly As in the air of her native East. Though many a flower in the wood is waking, The daffodil is our doorside queen; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot with sunshine the early green. No lays so joyous as these are warbled From wiry prison in maiden's bower; No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze. There is no glory in star or blossom Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes Till breathed with joy as they wander by. Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay-- Stay till the good old year, So long companion of our way, Shakes hands, and leaves us here. Oh stay, oh stay, One little hour, and then away.