 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
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THE ROBIN.
A POEM FOR CHILDHOOD.
The Robin is an English bird, fond of his native sky,
Whate'er the season, fierce or calm, he never deigns to fly;
He, like a patriot tried and true, braves every varying time,
And seems to cling the faithfullest when storms are in his clime.
Whate'er the season, fierce or calm, he never deigns to fly;
He, like a patriot tried and true, braves every varying time,
And seems to cling the faithfullest when storms are in his clime.
The Robin is a bonny bird, as merry Childhood knows,
Although he wears no gaudy crown, and dons no dainty clothes;
Although no sun-hues paint his wing, or play about his crest,
One ruddy flush of beauty burns upon his buoyant breast!
Although he wears no gaudy crown, and dons no dainty clothes;
Although no sun-hues paint his wing, or play about his crest,
One ruddy flush of beauty burns upon his buoyant breast!
The Robin is a sacred bird, by Nature's nameless charm,
Romance and song have hallowed him, and shielded him from harm:
The school-boy, as he roams about, on mischief bent, or play,
Peeps in upon his callow brood, but takes them not away.
Romance and song have hallowed him, and shielded him from harm:
The school-boy, as he roams about, on mischief bent, or play,
Peeps in upon his callow brood, but takes them not away.
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The Robin is a gentle bird,—for so old legends tell;—
The Babes that died in the forest wide, he guarded long and well;
He made for them a winding-sheet of fragrant leaves and flowers,
And sung a daily dirge for them in the dim cathedral bowers.
The Babes that died in the forest wide, he guarded long and well;
He made for them a winding-sheet of fragrant leaves and flowers,
And sung a daily dirge for them in the dim cathedral bowers.
The Robin is a tuneful bird,—how oft, at shut of day,
With his familiar music, he disturbs the dewy spray!
With song so quaint and querulous, and yet so sweet and wild,
That Age leans on his trembling staff, and listens like a child.
With his familiar music, he disturbs the dewy spray!
With song so quaint and querulous, and yet so sweet and wild,
That Age leans on his trembling staff, and listens like a child.
The Robin is a social bird, that loves the kindly poor,—
He scorns the palace porch, but comes to haunt the cottage door;
For bit or crumb he is not dumb, nor insolent, nor shy,
He sets his thanks to melody, and bids his friends goodbye!
He scorns the palace porch, but comes to haunt the cottage door;
For bit or crumb he is not dumb, nor insolent, nor shy,
He sets his thanks to melody, and bids his friends goodbye!
The Robin is a patient bird, for in the sternest hour
His grateful anthem gushes forth with most consoling power;
And though a touch of sadness seems to mingle with the strain,
'Tis such as suits the pensive ear, and gives the heart no pain.
His grateful anthem gushes forth with most consoling power;
And though a touch of sadness seems to mingle with the strain,
'Tis such as suits the pensive ear, and gives the heart no pain.
The Robin is the Poet's bird, poetic is his name,
And mortal minstrels, not a few, have linked him with their fame;
Poor Robin Bloomfield spake his praise, as eke did Robin Burns,
And Redbreast sings a requiem above their honoured urns.
And mortal minstrels, not a few, have linked him with their fame;
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And Redbreast sings a requiem above their honoured urns.
The Robin is a welcome bird, when frost is creeping round,
When snow-wreaths wrap the ghostly trees, and clothe the stilly ground;
But woe to them who have no heart to love his simple lay,
For birds, like flowers, are pleasant things that never lead astray.
When snow-wreaths wrap the ghostly trees, and clothe the stilly ground;
But woe to them who have no heart to love his simple lay,
For birds, like flowers, are pleasant things that never lead astray.
Then from the Robin let me learn some lessons good and wise,—
Firm faithfulness, sweet cheerfulness, beneath the sternest skies,
A hymn of praise, an upward gaze to Him who guides and gives,
Who moulds and moves, sustains and loves, the humblest thing that lives!
Firm faithfulness, sweet cheerfulness, beneath the sternest skies,
A hymn of praise, an upward gaze to Him who guides and gives,
Who moulds and moves, sustains and loves, the humblest thing that lives!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |