Winds war with warring winds,
By angry Boreas driven;
And with their furious battlings
The craggy hills seem riven.
Old Ocean fumes and roars

Around the reeling mast,

And clouds like mountains through the sky
Are hurried with the blast.

The stormy March is come:

Though rough, thou 'rt welcome here:

Wild harbinger of April's days,

We greet thee with good cheer.

Thy entrance may be rude,
But it will not be long

Before the stormy March again

UP rose the labouring man at morn;

And ere he left his shed,

To battle with the cares of life,

He knelt beside his bed;

And, with his eyes upturn'd to heaven,

He earnestly did pray

That God would grant His servant power

To live to Him that day.

None watch'd the weary toiler there,
None saw the good man weep:
His wife and much-loved little ones
Around him were asleep.

His prayer uprose to heaven for them,
Uprose to heaven for all;

And Christ look'd down well pleased to hear
The pleader's earnest call.

A weary worker, worn and wan,
With spirits much depress'd,

That day toil'd with him, and there seem'd
A load upon his breast.

The Christian's converse flow'd like balm
Into his wounded heart,

And life seem'd reft of half its cares,
And pain of half its smart.

A lone cot, by the grand old wood,-
You reach it through a lane,-

Half screen'd a sick man from the blast
In poverty and pain.

That evening saw him wipe the tears
From off the poor man's eyes,
Who drank his words like waters from
The gardens of the skies.

A bright boy bounding by the brook,
A damsel pale and slim,

A grey-hair'd, limping, friendless man,
Had loving words from him.

And when his children, wife, and he, Around eve's altar bent,

He felt the Lord had answer'd prayer; It was a day well spent.

In sweetest sleep he lay,

His spirit roam'd through vision-land Where sinless spirits stray :

And on his tingling ears there fell

A flood of holy song

From golden lutes and living lyres,
Swept by the upper throng.

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

"Look through the lattice, Laura,
Look out upon the main :
'Tis time your fisher father
Was at his home again.
The winds are wailing wildly,

The great waves lash the strand:

O Saviour, save the fisher,

And bring him safe to land!

And Laura through the casement

Gazed o'er the sand-hills brown

Upon the fretted ocean,

Which roll'd in fury down.

And Laura's eyes are gleaming
Again upon the sea :
No boat is seen approaching,

Or fisher on the quay.

The sun has sunk in shadow,

A thick black darkens space : Her heart beats hard and harder, And tears are on her face.

"Now trim the midnight taper, And, Laura, let us creep Together to the doorway,

And back again to weep. The storm is raging louder, And deeper moans the sea; The dismal darkness thickens; No fisher comes to me."

And when the blush of morning
Hung on the brightening air,
They early sought the sea-side,
To weep in sorrow there.
For one a sire and lover,

And one a husband found,
Wash'd dead upon the shingles-
The fishermen were drown'd.

You see that cottage yonder;
The thatch is old and grey :
There Laura and her mother
Are living to this day.
And one is fresh as summer,
One wintry, reft, and riven;
And both wear weeds of widowhood,
And both prepare for heaven.

THE DISTRESSED MECHANIC.

THE hawthorn leaves were fading;
Its fruit was ripe and red;
It dangled down in clusters.
From the old tree's prickly head.