March. an Ode

Like Jason, arm'd in coat of mail, Who nobly won the golden fleece, Thro' heavy storms of wind and hail, March on a Ram triumphant rides, A warlike month! averse to peace:— No longer now the soldier bides In huts hybernal—o'er the plain, Embattled see the dread campaign!

Or on the flood, if war preside, See Britain's bloody pennant fly! Her's is the ocean, free, as wide, Where-e'er the sons of commerce sail, Where-e'er her canvas pinions ply, Her floating citadels prevail O'er all the force of Gaul and Spain, Whose fleets no more usurp the main.

Spring bids the frozen rivers flow, Knocks off their rigid bolts of ice, And melts huge Appenines of snow; By starts the flattering beams of noon The linnet, or the lark entice To sing a momentary tune; But quick and sudden shifts the scene, And gales tempestuous intervene.

Scarce does the primrose show her head, Tho' eldest daughter of the spring, Nor dares the cowslip leave her bed, Affrighted at the northern blast, Who blights each blossom with his wing, While the dun ether's overcast: Of violence how short the sway! 'Tis but the pageant of a day.—

The gods take care of us below, Indulgent are their gifts to all, With hands unsparing, they bestow, Impartial, air and sun and rain, To bless this sublunary ball, And mingle pleasure with our pain; Content is ever in our power, And passes by us every hour.