POETRY.

THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.

A TRIPTYCH IN VERSE.

AT last! after months of a black wind,

Tormenting from North and from East, Till poets and lyrists all lack wind To sing or of bird or of beast !

With never a bud or a blossom To whisper of summer to be; And man like a lonely opossum

Up the trunk of a desolate tree—

Young girls playing vainly at dresses Of spring in their texture and hue, Though dusty and limp are their tresses,

Cheeks spotty, and noses of blue—

The masher held fast in his collar, But afraid winter clothing to doff, For fear, to his infinite dolour,

It should cause an unmasherly cough—

Boats making believe on the river,

Bushey chestnuts but bushy in name; Spring winds very rough on the liver, And drinks not improving the same—

Young couples with amorous fancies, Wooed but by East winds in their nooks ; Richmond trees looking down on romances,

Like a black, bleak procession of spooks— The year one long season of iron, Which only the fittest survive—

Oh ! such are the thoughts that environ The Britons remaining alive?

At last-18.4-87- I gaze on my weathercock's vane, Which so long vainly wobbled to heaven Without a suggestion of rain.

I spring to my feet in confusion, With my first breakfast egg in my month: "Maria! is this a delusion ?

Does it point to the West or the South ?"

Let as rise in our glory and shout ; let's Spring's pecan in earnest begin, And pray for the natural outlets Relieving the weather-bound skin.

If the seasons have ever to march meant, Now—now—let us hope 'tie the time; A truce to the liver of parchment, And more power to our genial clime!

P.S.—'Tis the last of the same month; Ten days since these stanzas were penned ; And never was yet such a game month For keeping it up to the end.

Maria ? 'twas not a delusion; But the change doesn't matter the least, If South winds put North to confusion, And West ones are colder than East.

We shiver at murmur of rivers, And shake on the margin of lakes, For the rivers but give us the shivers, And the lakes only cause as the shaken.

When it's fine, it's sufficiently crushing, And very much worse in the rains; They stir not the season to blushing, And serve but for Hashing the drains.

In Summer, or Winter, or Autumn, Was it, is it, or will it be Spring ?

Are the months in the order we thought 'em P

Is only old Weathercock king P 'Tie the Rads ! they've stormed Heaven together, To rigid economy stuck, And cut down the clerks of the weather, Till those left on duty have struck !

P.S. 2.—May the Eighth. On a madden Leaps on us a summer perplexed ; Bewildered Creation is buddin' ; It's as warm as blue blazes. What next?

Singston.on-Thameo, April 18th—May 8th. H. C. M.