 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
81
THE ROBIN.
Written in New Mexico, on hearing a red-breast sing, the only one that I ever
heard there.
Hush! where art thou clinging,
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet
As a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand—
And thou
Art now
As merry as though thou wast singing at home,
A way
In the spray
Of a shower, that tumbles through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wast hid,
To the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf
In its greenness of spring,
And thy nest lurked amid a gray heaven of shade,
Where thy young and thyself from the sunshine were laid.
Hush! hush!—Look around thee!
Lo! bleak mountains bound thee,
All barren and gloomy and red;
And a desolate pine
Doth above thee incline,
And gives not a leaf to thy bed—
And lo!
Below
No flowers of beauty and brilliancy blow,
But weeds,
Gray heads,
That mutter and moan when the wind-waves flow:
And the rain never falls
In the season of spring,
To freshen thy heart
And to lighten thy wing;
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
And echo alone makes reply to thy song.
And while thou art chanting,
With head thus upslanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
Which flits in its haste
O'er the heart's dreary waste,
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet
As a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand—
And thou
Art now
As merry as though thou wast singing at home,
A way
In the spray
Of a shower, that tumbles through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wast hid,
To the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf
In its greenness of spring,
And thy nest lurked amid a gray heaven of shade,
Where thy young and thyself from the sunshine were laid.
Hush! hush!—Look around thee!
Lo! bleak mountains bound thee,
All barren and gloomy and red;
And a desolate pine
Doth above thee incline,
And gives not a leaf to thy bed—
And lo!
Below
No flowers of beauty and brilliancy blow,
But weeds,
Gray heads,
That mutter and moan when the wind-waves flow:
And the rain never falls
In the season of spring,
To freshen thy heart
And to lighten thy wing;
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
And echo alone makes reply to thy song.
And while thou art chanting,
With head thus upslanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
Which flits in its haste
O'er the heart's dreary waste,
82
With an influence soothing, Elysian—
Or a lone
Sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of Sorrow;
And soon,
Too soon,
I must leave thee, and bid thee a long good morrow.
But if thou wilt turn
To the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again
E'er the end of spring;
And thy nest can be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and leaf and tendril entwine.
Oh! thou art a stranger,
And darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown,
And the land of the North
Is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back
On thy track;
It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan
Alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea:
And the eyes that we left
To grow dim months ago,
Will greet us again
With their idolized glow.
Let us go—let us go—and revisit our home,
Where the oak leaves are green and the sea-waters foam.
Or a lone
Sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of Sorrow;
And soon,
Too soon,
I must leave thee, and bid thee a long good morrow.
But if thou wilt turn
To the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again
E'er the end of spring;
And thy nest can be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and leaf and tendril entwine.
Oh! thou art a stranger,
And darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown,
And the land of the North
Is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back
On thy track;
It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan
Alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea:
And the eyes that we left
To grow dim months ago,
Will greet us again
With their idolized glow.
Let us go—let us go—and revisit our home,
Where the oak leaves are green and the sea-waters foam.
Valley of Tisuqui, March 20, 1832.
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