POETRY.
TO APRIL.
[FROM A SICK-BED.]
.0 APRIL month of sweet expectancies,
The girlhood of the year, the pride of Spring, Why coin'st thou thus .on Earns' withering wing, _And 'neath such unrelenting skies as these ?
Black March has passed from all the lands and seas Ho ravaged; and I hoped that thou wouldst bring Such gifts benign as thou wert wont to fling,— Bright gleams, and opening buds, and thoughts at ease. Why art thou masquing thus in Winter's mien ? Where is thy chaplet, and thy leafy spray ? Thy flexile graces, and elastic tread? Ah, April I nothing reclest thou what I say ; Ceaselessly cheerless wilt thou still be seen, For all these meanings from a sick man's bed.
'Too harshly, April, chid I thee, believing Thou wouldst remain unkindly to the last ; But now, or ere thy eighth of moons is past, Thou smilest, and repentest thine aggrieving. "Thou art again the month of promise, weaving, With that strange, textile potency thou hest,
Fresh foliage, and bright presages,—the waste Cu plants and man of wintry hours retrieving. And if for lne come no reviving bloom,
Not less on high the lark shall hymn it clear ; Not less the flowers shall perfect their perfume ; Not less in order move month, season, year ; Albeit, the Earth has one more uoteless tomb. J. S. D.
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