 | Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin |  |
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THE RED-BREAST:
A Tale for Children.
How dumb the tuneful!
THOMPSON.
Upon a bleak December's morn,
When snow was on the hills;
When icy chains had bound each thorn,
And silent were the rills.
When snow was on the hills;
When icy chains had bound each thorn,
And silent were the rills.
A red-breast that was wont to sing,
And cheer each lonely bower;
Now pensive droop'd his weary wing,
Beneath a sleety shower.
And cheer each lonely bower;
Now pensive droop'd his weary wing,
Beneath a sleety shower.
Tom, sliding on a pool fast by,
On archest tricks intent,
The little wanderer chanced to spy,
With cold and hunger spent.
On archest tricks intent,
The little wanderer chanced to spy,
With cold and hunger spent.
Then for a pebble sought around,
And crouch'd beneath the tree;
Close cleaved the pebble to the ground,
And mock'd his cruelty.
And crouch'd beneath the tree;
Close cleaved the pebble to the ground,
And mock'd his cruelty.
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His little sister, in whose breast
The seeds of virtue grew,
Her gentler nature thus express'd
‘Would you be so done to?’
The seeds of virtue grew,
Her gentler nature thus express'd
‘Would you be so done to?’
‘Ah! do not kill, she mildly said,
The pretty harmless bird;’
Tom, all abash'd hung down his head;
And utter'd not a word.
The pretty harmless bird;’
Tom, all abash'd hung down his head;
And utter'd not a word.
But she, in joy, could not withhold,
A crust, her morning store;
Whilst Tom's repentant silence told
‘He'd cruel be no more.’
A crust, her morning store;
Whilst Tom's repentant silence told
‘He'd cruel be no more.’
Then to the bush she gently stole,
And strew'd the crumbled bread;
Her tears confess'd her pitying soul,—
She found poor Robin dead.
And strew'd the crumbled bread;
Her tears confess'd her pitying soul,—
She found poor Robin dead.
| Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin | |