March. 
3 ° 
THE PRIMROSE. 
The Sun declines ; his parting ray 
Shall bear the cheerful light away, 
And on the landscape close ; 
Then will I seek the lonely vale, 
Where sober evening’s primrose pale 
To greet the night-star blows. 
Soft, melancholy bloom, to thee 
I turn with conscious sympathy ! 
Like thee my hour is come, 
When lengthening shadows slowly fade, 
Till, lost in universal shade, 
They sink beneath the tomb. 
By thee I’ll sit and inly muse ; 
What are the charms in life we lose 
When time demands our breath ? 
Alas ! the load of lengthen’d age 
Has little can our wish engage, 
Or point the shaft of death. 
No ; 'tis alone the pang to part 
With those we love that rends the heart ; 
That agony to save, 
Some nameless cause in nature strives. 
Like thee, in shades our hope revives, 
And blossoms in the grave. 
Mrs. Hunter. 
