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.