Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 279, October 20, 1827 - Various - Страница 4

Hark to the robin—whistling clear—

The requiem of the dying year—

    Amidst the garden bower.

He quits his native forest shade,

Ere ruin stern hath there display'd

    Its desolating power.

He sings—but not the song of love—

No,—that is for the quick'ning grove—

    The brightly budding tree.

And tho' we listen and rejoice;

In melody that sweet-ton'd voice

    Implores our charity.

The birds of passage take their flight

To other lands—of warmth and light—

    Where orient breezes blow.

While here the little red-breast stays,

And sweetly warbles out his lays,

    Amidst the chilling snow.

When the keen North congeals the stream

That sparkled in the summer-beam—

    Chink—chink—the Robin comes.

His near approach proclaims a dearth

Of food upon the ice-bound earth;—

    He whistles for our crumbs.

But, like the child of want, he hails

Too oft where avarice prevails—

    Devoid of charity;—

Where hearts 'neath rich-clad bosoms glow,

Yet never feel the inspiring throe

    Of tender sympathy.

Tho' pleas'd with wildly-warbled song,

The minstrel's life will they prolong

    With food and shelter warm?

No,—see, to shun the cruel snare,

Again he wings the frozen air,

    And dies amidst the storm.

How sweeter far it were to see

The bird familiar, fond, and free,

    With confidence intrude;—

To see him to the table come,

And hear him sing o'er ev'ry crumb

    A song of gratitude.