 | Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] |  |
20
TO THE ROBIN.
The ox is all as happy, in his stall,As when he lowed i' the summer's yellow eve,
Browsing the king-cup slopes; but no reprieve
Is left for thee, save thy sweet madrigal,
Poor robin: and severer days will fall.
Bethink thee well of all yon frosted sward,
The orchard-path, so desolate and hard,
And meadow-runnels, with no voice at all!
Then feed with me, poor warbler, household bird,
And glad me with thy song so sadly tim'd,
And be on thankful ears thy lay conferr'd;
So, till her latest rhyme my muse hath rhym'd,
Thy voice shall with a pleasant thrill be heard,
And with a poet's fear, when twigs are lim'd.
| Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] | |