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Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

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My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living Calendar :

We from today, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to eart :

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason:

Our minds shall drink at every por

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,

Which they shall long obey:

We for the

year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,

With speed put on your woodland dress -And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

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THE

FEMALE VAGRANT.

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