The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.