SONNET. O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour What were it now to toss upon the waves, And the wild sea that to the tempest raves; But now, leaving the stern and melancholy features of March, let us go abroad upon a day such as the poet has described below: March in his wakening strength! The west wind, loud, At once has hurried from the heavens away Their slumbrous guests of shadow and of cloud. Tinges the far horizon. "Tis a day That breathes its vigour through heart, soul, and frame; Oh! for a life where each day was the same! The influence of the day is upon us, and with hearts joyous as those of little children, let us gather a handful of daisies, Those pearled Arcturi of the earth, H and first one well preserved from old Chaucer: The Daisie, a flowre white and rede, Above all flowres in the mede, Than love I most those flowres white and rede, And now, dewy and fresh from the hand of a young poet: THE DAISY. A gold and silver cup To catch the sunshine in : A dial chaste, set there To show each radiant hour: A field-astronomer; A sun-observing flower. The children with delight The little children's friend. Out in the field she's seen, And clean white frill arrayed; The dandy Butterfly, In all that gaudy show; THE DAISY. The vagrant Bee but sings And woo some wealthier flower; She hath no honey-dower. The Gnat, old back-bent fellow, His tottering limbs to rest; She lifteth up her cup, To stand, in shine and shower; A white-rayed marigold, A golden-bosomed flower. It is a pleasant croft Where "winged kine " may graze; Quadrille-ground for young fays; A little yellow plot, With clean white pales fenced round, Each tipt with vermeil spot, Each set on greenest ground. HENRY SUTTON. Nor must we omit two others which may justly be termed perennial. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. 455736B Alas! its no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the lintie stibble field, Unseen, alane. |