 | The Vale of Arden and Other Poems |  |
75
TO THE REDBREAST
Sweet minstrel of the homes of men,
Waylayer of my early walk,
Stay till this dahlia stalk
Is tied, and then
We'll talk.
Waylayer of my early walk,
Stay till this dahlia stalk
Is tied, and then
We'll talk.
There, pretty gossip!—now, come near,
With jaunty tail, and head awry;
Thou least, of things that fly,
Hast need to fear
Man's eye.
With jaunty tail, and head awry;
Thou least, of things that fly,
Hast need to fear
Man's eye.
A gracious legend guardeth thee,
My robin, with a hallowed name;
And trustfulness so tame
Puts cruelty
To shame.
My robin, with a hallowed name;
And trustfulness so tame
Puts cruelty
To shame.
76
No prison waits for thee, dear; who,
Of all the joy-deserted throng
Who buy a captive song,
Would dare to do
Thee wrong?
Of all the joy-deserted throng
Who buy a captive song,
Would dare to do
Thee wrong?
Yes, I remember well the nest,
Six little bosoms brown-bespecked—
O tender architect—
And then each breast
Fire-flecked.
Six little bosoms brown-bespecked—
O tender architect—
And then each breast
Fire-flecked.
Yes; summer's gone; but what of that?
Now that her timid devotees
Are fled across the seas,
We two can chat
At ease.
Now that her timid devotees
Are fled across the seas,
We two can chat
At ease.
We love to hear the bold wind blow,
To see his random might deflower
The rocking elms, that shower
Their golden snow
Where cower
To see his random might deflower
The rocking elms, that shower
Their golden snow
Where cower
77
The sheep behind a shivering hedge;
We love the huddling clouds that rove
O'er the blue plain above
The horizon's edge;
We love
We love the huddling clouds that rove
O'er the blue plain above
The horizon's edge;
We love
The tones, by moisture richly dyed,
Of winter's warm-hued nakedness,
When south winds blow, not less
Than autumn's pride
Of dress.
Of winter's warm-hued nakedness,
When south winds blow, not less
Than autumn's pride
Of dress.
Then every voice but thine doth cease,
While He, Who teacheth all to sing,
Is darkly pondering
His masterpiece,
The spring.
While He, Who teacheth all to sing,
Is darkly pondering
His masterpiece,
The spring.
As faintly through the gloom and damp
That fills some melancholy shrine,
When evening's brows decline,
A single lamp
Doth shine;
That fills some melancholy shrine,
When evening's brows decline,
A single lamp
Doth shine;
78
So, when the mournful sunbeams slant
Where summer lieth sepulchred,
A throb of hope, bright bird,
In thy spare chant
Is heard.
Where summer lieth sepulchred,
A throb of hope, bright bird,
In thy spare chant
Is heard.
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