This is excellent good sense, and the descriptive poetry of Bryant shows how carefully he has observed the rules which Scott has laid down.  He never has a conventional image, and never resorts to the second-hand frippery of a poetical commonplace-book to tag his verses with.  Every season of our American year has been delineated by him, and the drawing and coloring of his pictures are always correct.  Our American springs, for instance, are not at all the ideal or poetical springs, and Bryant does not pretend that they are; and yet he can find a poetical side to them, as witness his poem entitled “March":—­

  “The stormy March is come at last,
    With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: 
  I hear the rushing of the blast
    That through the snowy valley flies.

  “Ah, passing few are they who speak,
    Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;
  Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
    Thou art a welcome month to me.

  “For thou to northern lands again
    The glad and glorious sun dost bring;
  And them hast joined the gentle train,
    And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

  “And in thy reign of blast and storm
    Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
  When the changed winds are soft and warm,
    And heaven puts on the blue of May.”

This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit.  March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly like her grim sire.  The snow which has melted from the uplands lingers in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts mark the sullen retreat of winter; but the days are growing longer, the sun mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the blue sky, like Burns’s daisy “glinting forth” amid the storm.

March and April come and go, and May succeeds.  Hers is not quite the “blue, voluptuous eye” she wears in the portraits which poets paint of her, and those who court her smiles are sometimes chilled by decidedly wintry glances.  Bryant gives us her best aspect:—­

  “The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
  And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills,
  And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 
  Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds
  Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,
  The robin warbled forth his full clear note
  For hours, and wearied not.  Within the woods,
  Where young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast
  A shade, gay circles of anemones
  Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,
  Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut
  And quivering poplar to the roving breeze
  Gave a balsamic fragrance.”

How admirable this is!  And with what truth, we had almost said courage, the poet makes his report.  The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of the apple-tree, the half-transparent leaves of the trees, the anemones on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (Amelanchier Botryapium), the quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one perceives in the woods at that season are so exactly what we find in our New-England May!  How much better these distinct statements are than a tissue of generalities about flowery wreaths, and fragrant zephyrs, and genial rays, and fresh verdure, and vernal airs, and ambrosial dews!