KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



87 



hares are hopping about the fields, the ex- 

 citement of the season overcoming their 

 habitual timidity. The bees are revelling 

 in the yellow catkins of the sallow. The 

 woods, though yet unadorned with their 

 leafy garniture, are beautiful to look on; 

 they seem flushed with life. Their boughs 

 are of a clear glossy lead color, and the 

 tree-tops are rich with the vigorous hues of 

 brown, red, and purple : and if you plunge 

 into their solitudes, there are symptoms of 

 revivification under your feet, the springing 

 mercury, and green blades of the blue-bells 

 — and perhaps, above you, the early nest 

 of the missel-thrush perched between the 

 boughs of a young oak, to tinge your 

 thoughts with the anticipation of summer. 



These are mornings not to be neglected 

 by the lover of Nature ; and if not neglected, 

 then, not to be forgotten, for they will stir 

 the springs of memory, and make us live 

 over again times and seasons, in which we 

 cannot, for the pleasure and the purity of 

 our spirits, live too much. 



A few more keen winds no doubt await us 

 in this changeable climate of ours ; but the 

 sun is now glorious in his might, and we 

 can often get abroad to revel in a joyous 

 walk. An extra coat buttoned round us, and 

 a light heart, bid defiance to all external in- 

 fluences now. We have nearly arrived at 

 " the time of the singing of birds ;" and we 

 mean to sing as loud, if not so musically, as 

 any of them. Meantime, let a most favorite 

 bard of ours be heard — in his 



INVOCATION TO MARCH. 



Come hither, come hither, and view the face 



Of Nature, enrobed in her vernal grace. 



By the hedgerow, way-side flowers are springing ; 



On the budding elms the birds are singing ; 



And up — up — to the gates of Heaven 



Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture 



driven. 

 The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud ; 

 On the sky there is not a speck of cloud ; 

 Come hither, come hither, and join with me 

 In the season's delightful jubilee ! 



Haste out of doors — from this pastoral mount 

 The isles of ocean thine eye may count. 

 From coast to coast, and from town to town, 

 You can see the white sails gleaming down, 

 Like monstrous water-birds, which fling 

 The golden light from each snowy wing ; 

 And the chimnied steam-boat tossing high 

 Its volumed smoke to the waste of sky : 

 While you note, in foam, on the yellow beach, 

 The tiny billows, each chasing each, 

 Then melting like cloudlets in the sky, 

 Or Time in the sea of Eternity ! 

 Why tarry at home ? the swarms of air 

 Are about — and o'erhead — and everywhere. 

 The little moth opens its silken wings, 

 And from right to left like a blossom, flings. 

 And from side to side, like a thistle-seed, 

 Uplifted by winds from September meads, 



The midge and the fly from their long, dull sleep 

 Venture again on the light to peep. 

 Over lake and land abroad they flee, 

 Filling air with their murmuring ecstasy. 

 The hare leaps up from his brushwood bed, 

 And limps, and turns his timid head ; 

 The partridge whirrs from the glade ; the mole 

 Pops out from the earth of its wintry hole ; 

 And the perking squirrel's small nose you see 

 From the fungous nook of its own beech tree. 



Come, hasten ye hither. Our garden bowers, 

 Are green with the promise of budding flowers. 

 The crocus, and, Spring's first messenger, 

 The faeiy snowdrop, are blooming here. 

 The taper-leafed tulip is sprouting up ; 

 The hyacinth speaks of its purple cup ; 

 The jonquil boasteth, ' Ere few weeks run, 

 My golden sunlet I'll show the sun ;' 

 The gilly-flower shoots its stems on high, 

 And peeps on Heaven with its pinky eye. 

 Primroses, an Iris-hued multitude, 

 By the kissing winds are wooing and wooed ; 

 While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting 



bud, 

 To darken its blossoms with Winter's blood. 

 Come here, come hither ; and mark how swell 

 The fruit-buds of the jargonelle. 

 On its yet but leaf-let greening boughs, 

 The apricot open its blossom throws ; 

 The delicate peach-tree's branches run 

 O'er the warm wall, glad to feel the sun ; 

 And the cherry proclaims of cloudless weather, 

 When its fruit and the blackbirds will toy to- 

 gether. 

 See, the gooseberry bushes their riches show ; 

 And the currant-bunch hangs its leaves below ; 

 And the damp-loving rasp saith, " I'll win your 



praise 

 With my grateful coolness on harvest days." 

 Come along, come along, and guess with me 

 How fair and how fruitful the year shall be ! 



Look into the pasture-grounds o'er the pale, 

 And behold the foal with its switching tail ; 

 About and abroad in its mirth it flies, 

 With its long black forelocks about its eyes ; 

 Or bends its neck down with a stretch, 

 The daisy's earliest flower to reach. 

 See, as on by the hawthorn fence we pass, 

 How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass, 

 Or holding their heads to the sunny ray, 

 As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay ! 

 While the chattering sparrows, in and out, 

 Fly the shrubs, and trees, and roofs about ; 

 And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam 

 With sticks and straws to their woodland home. 



Out upon in-door cares ! Rejoice 

 In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice ! 

 The finger of God hath touched the sky, 

 And the clouds, like a vanquished army, fly ; 

 Leaving a rich, wide, azure bow, 

 O'erspanning the works of his hand below. 

 The finger of God hath touched the earth, 

 And it starts from slumber in smiling mirth ; 

 Behold it awake in the bird and bee, 

 In the springing flower, and the sprouting tree, 

 And the leaping trout, and the lapsing stream, 

 And the south wind soft, and the warm sun- 

 beam : — 



