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THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.

Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should riseAmid a chorus of the merriest birdsThat ever sang the stars out of the skyIn a June morning. Rivulets should sendA voice of gladness from their winding paths,Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds,Stirring the loaded stems should shower the, dewUpon the glamy water. Newly blownRoses, by thousands, to the garden walksShould tempt the lottering moth and diligent bee.The longest, brightest day in all the year
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