TO MY SISTER.

Written at a small distance from my House, and fent by my little Boy.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,

The red-breast fings from the tall larch
That ftands befide our door.

There is a bleffing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grafs in the green field.

My Sifter! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make hafte, your morning task refign;
Come forth and feel the fun.

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 fhall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, 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 earth :

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason :

Our minds fhall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some filent 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 bleffed power that rolls
About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our fouls:
They fhall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sifter! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.