Who is this froward youth, with his loud and boisterous voice? He comes from the east; limping rheumatism and shivering ague are in his train; but his face is now dressed in smiles. The birds begin their lays, the lambs again frolic around. The daisy and the violet grow beneath his feet; he dresses himself with the buds of the spring. Vegetation displays her lovely green, and holds out the promise of future riches. Again the tempest of his passions arise; he tears the chaplet from his brows, and scatters it in the wind. Oh! hasten far away from us, variable and boisterous March.
Clad in a robe of light green, and decorated with lilies of the valley, a lovely maid advances. She breathes on the opening flowers, and their beauty is expanded. The leaves of the grove burst forth, and the hedges exhibit their partial verdure. Nature, invigorated, smiles around her; but she weeps, and her flowerets bend, drooping, to the earth. Mild is her mien, and the tint of modesty is on her cheek. She smiles, whilst the tear still trembles in her eye, like placid resignation bending over the tomb of a departed friend. She is a pensive maiden, and her name is April.
'The lambs frisk about her.'—Page 16.
Hark to the sound of rustic mirth, which precede a cheerful youth! His step is light and airy, his robe is of many colours, roses adorn his flowing ringlets, health and pleasure float on the freshening gale, exercise and mirth gambol before him, age forgets his troubles, quits his arm-chair, and welcomes his approach. The maids of the hamlet assemble and dance round the pole, decked with many a flower and many a streaming pendant. The village lovers loiter at the stile, or wander down the retired lane, where the hedges are covered with their white blossoms, and the modest wild rose, emblem of the blushing maid, peeps from the sheltering thorn. Season of love and delight! long may thy reign be protracted, young and beauteous May!
Who is the maid now approaching? She arises when the lark first pours his melody in air. Her dress is of a darker green, her head is adorned with full-blown flowers, her face is tanned by labour. The bleating and affrighted sheep are plunged, unwillingly, into the pool, and now by the sturdy hand stripped of their fleecy coats. The bottle quickly passes, the simple tale goes round, the ballad purchased at the fair is sung; the mower whets his scythe, and the grass and the wild-flowers fall before it; the waggon, heavily laden, removes the odoriferous hay; and the neat-mown fields display a brighter green. The cuckoo, with his never-varying note is heard; but let us, when the day is over, placed in some secluded nook, listen to the sweeter nightingale, who, as poets feign, was once a hapless female. Industry now toils through the lengthened day, and the name of this sun-burnt maiden is June.