 | Dartmoor, and other poems |  |
73
THE WINTER ROBIN.
Sweet Robin! I hail thy appearance once more,
Come sing in my garden, or peck at my door;
Tho' an ingrate for favours so often conferr'd,
With delight I still welcome my favourite bird.
Come sing in my garden, or peck at my door;
Tho' an ingrate for favours so often conferr'd,
With delight I still welcome my favourite bird.
When the last winter's tempest rush'd down from the sky,
Thou appear'dst at my window with pitiful eye!
The bread from my table unsparing I cast,
And thought that one friend might be faithful at last.
Thou appear'dst at my window with pitiful eye!
The bread from my table unsparing I cast,
And thought that one friend might be faithful at last.
Thy contemplative look, 'twas my joy to behold,
Thy flight oft repress'd, and thy plumage of gold;
And the oftner thou cam'st from thy dwelling unknown,
The more welcome thou wast to the crumbs I had thrown.
Thy flight oft repress'd, and thy plumage of gold;
And the oftner thou cam'st from thy dwelling unknown,
The more welcome thou wast to the crumbs I had thrown.
The mild breath of spring, from their covert profound,
Call'd the leaves into light and bespangled the ground,
Ah! then, 'mid the blaze of prosperity's reign,
I sought for my Robin, but sought him in vain!
Call'd the leaves into light and bespangled the ground,
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I sought for my Robin, but sought him in vain!
Now that summer is past, and the forest is bare,
At my window thou stand'st, a sad spectacle there;
Cold and shivering my pardon thou seem'st to implore,
And to ask for the hand that once fed thee before.
At my window thou stand'st, a sad spectacle there;
Cold and shivering my pardon thou seem'st to implore,
And to ask for the hand that once fed thee before.
Come, banish thy grief, nor past folly bewail,
My love is a store-house that never shall fail;
At evening, at morning, at noon, and at night,
To feed my sweet bird shall still give me delight.
My love is a store-house that never shall fail;
At evening, at morning, at noon, and at night,
To feed my sweet bird shall still give me delight.
Ah! why should I thus thine inconstancy chide?
Have I no conviction of crimes deeper died?
Tho' of Reason possess'd and Instruction Divine,
My spirit is far more ungrateful than thine.
Have I no conviction of crimes deeper died?
Tho' of Reason possess'd and Instruction Divine,
My spirit is far more ungrateful than thine.
From the moment since first I this vital air drew,
One friend has preserved and supported me too;
Yet how often have I, whilst I sumptuously fared,
Forgotten the Hand that my banquet prepared.
One friend has preserved and supported me too;
Yet how often have I, whilst I sumptuously fared,
Forgotten the Hand that my banquet prepared.
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