THE MISFORTUNE OF MARCH. [Written in the pastoral style of the old British Poets.]

It was upon a raw and windy day, When fields of ice were floating to the sea, And Greenland birds sat croaking on the shore, Looking the wide waste of the waters o'er; But yet the vernal equinox was nigh, And tho' the wintry winds had ceas'd to roar Yet many an icicle, as we went by, Hung from the farmer's thatch, or cottage door: It was on such a day Palemon held his way To the deep lake, whose lately liquid face The night by-past in other semblance dress'd As if it would its summer visage trace In the blue mirror on its waves impress'd, And aid the gambols of a wayward boy Who had been told the dairy maid's advice And caution'd not to trust to one night's ice.

BUT he of pleasure only thought; and said, " To sport awhile upon the frozen wave " And take the sad remains of winter's joy, " And cut strange figures that must shortly fade " Since the warm sun his summer time will have, " Be this day's business for a shepherd's boy."

So to the lake he came; and sinding there The slippery surface would his footsteps bear He girt upon his soals the channell'd steel, Tho' cautious yet, he left not far the shore, For old Menalcas splitting faggots near Had just been telling a disheartening tale (That struck less enterprizing lads with fear) Of one who had been drown'd in times of yore And swallow'd in the lake and seen no more.

BUT now grown daring, he disdain'd to stay So near the rustics on the inglorious strand, And found no honours where no dangers lay; But while he yet was sporting near the land Fair Amaryllis chanc'd to come that way, "Return (she said) rash boy (and wav'd her hand) For now the sun is high and shines out clear, And this smooth glittering scene that spreads so wide Is a more masque that would destruction hide, Will take new colours by the close of day And all the glaz'd deception disappear.

" THESE winds (said he) that blow so cold and raw " Feel more to me like winter than the spring, " Nor do I think that ice or snow will thaw " Till a new moon shall milder seasons bring."— He spoke: nor guess'd the influence of the sun That unperceiv'd did undermine his floor, Nor thought, as from the bank he swiftly ran, That old Menalcas would not see him more.

Now to the centre of the lake arriv'd Three fathoms down the heavy waters lay, And far above them on a shell of ice The scaly tribe with pity saw him play; Alas, they could not give him good advice, For fish have ceas'd to speak since Esop's day.

AND yet he should have been severely shy, Fro just three years agone, that very day, A fortune-telling dame had travell'd by And all the village lads had heard her say, As for a groat she told Palemon's fate, "That he should of no slow consumption die, "Nor for the fever's deadly summons wait; "Not one disease upon the doctor's list "Shall end his life—but on a sudden miss'd "He for himself shall find a grave (she said) "And all by too much drink:"—Nor more delay'd, But having got her fee, And taking up her staff, away she went; And ever since that day, all thought she meant That young Palemon would a drunkard be.

PLEAS'D with the distance gain'd, he smil'd to think How Amaryllis, now no longer seen, Would anxiously expect him on the brink And wonder what his long delay could mean; So he remain'd, till with the mid-day sun He saw at last his skating time was over, And all his pranks, and all his frolics done; And then began to look towards the shore, But the frail ice his weight no longer bore, And nothing to support him could he find; And down he sunk, for dolphins none were there, And Naiads, that were once so very kind To catch up drowning men, and on their shoulders bear.

THEN, night approaching, all the village train Came to the lake, and gaz'd with anxious eye, O'er the wide waste they look'd and look'd again, And old Menalcas breath'd a heavy sigh, And said, "Young swain, if to the farther shore You did not, ere the noon day sun, repair, Sad Amaryllis shall not see you more Until the village bell shall call you there Where Goodman Long staff laid his boys of yore."

THEN round the lake they went, and oft explor'd Each branching creek, and pond, and darken'd stream: Nine days they search'd; nor was he yet restor'd And his sad fate was every day their theme, And every night of him the lads did dream— At last they found his corpse upon the shore, And strait the village bell began to ring; The sexton and the priest then mutter'd o'er Some holy words—and some their flowers did bring, And strew'd them o'er his grave, and every year Fair Amaryllis comes, and sings her ditties here.