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195
THE ROBIN.
A TALE OF EMIGRATION.
ENGLAND.
My thoughts are like our April,
Now sunshine, and now tears,
As I think I leave for ever
This pleasant home of years;
But, cheer you, sweetest wife,
Ay, be of blithesome cheer;
As happy days we'll spend afar
As ever we knew here.
Now sunshine, and now tears,
As I think I leave for ever
This pleasant home of years;
But, cheer you, sweetest wife,
Ay, be of blithesome cheer;
As happy days we'll spend afar
As ever we knew here.
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They say the land we're going to
Yields corn that turns to gold;
None need, they say, to labour there
Till years behold them old—
Till leisure's self is pluck'd
All blasted with the blight
That's eat away its very heart,
Its power to yield delight.
Yields corn that turns to gold;
None need, they say, to labour there
Till years behold them old—
Till leisure's self is pluck'd
All blasted with the blight
That's eat away its very heart,
Its power to yield delight.
Come, dry your eyes; your garden, wife,
For that, nay, never grieve;
There kingly flowers shall bloom for you,
Shall shame the ones you leave;
Who'll think of the wan daisy—
Who'll the primrose pale recal,
In the presence there of regal flowers
That bow in wonder all?
For that, nay, never grieve;
There kingly flowers shall bloom for you,
Shall shame the ones you leave;
Who'll think of the wan daisy—
Who'll the primrose pale recal,
In the presence there of regal flowers
That bow in wonder all?
There the waratah holds its state
Deep in the forest's shades,
And with the glory of its pride
Lights up the lonely glades;
The indigo there droops
Its crimson from the trees,
And there the cactus' queenly charms
Lure back the passing breeze.
Deep in the forest's shades,
And with the glory of its pride
Lights up the lonely glades;
The indigo there droops
Its crimson from the trees,
And there the cactus' queenly charms
Lure back the passing breeze.
Weep not, no more our woodlands
And our hedge-row elms to see;
Forget them; our adopted land
Has many a statelier tree;
The palm-like zamia there
Endiadems its cone
With bending leaves, whose mateless grace
Our willow's self would own.
And our hedge-row elms to see;
Forget them; our adopted land
Has many a statelier tree;
The palm-like zamia there
Endiadems its cone
With bending leaves, whose mateless grace
Our willow's self would own.
There the dark gum-tree's polished leaves
Fling back to heaven the sun;
There, Titan pines upscale the sky,
Uptower'd to here by none;
The orange garlands there
Its form with odorous snow,
And round the grass-tree's banded trunk,
Its sweeping tresses flow.
Fling back to heaven the sun;
There, Titan pines upscale the sky,
Uptower'd to here by none;
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Its form with odorous snow,
And round the grass-tree's banded trunk,
Its sweeping tresses flow.
Ay, blithely sing my prison'd thrush,
Full soon shall you be free,
For the bell-bird's note outsweetens yours
Beyond the swelling sea;
And, scarlet-vested almsman,
Your latest dole I cast;
For, robin, on your English face,
I look, perchance, my last.
Full soon shall you be free,
For the bell-bird's note outsweetens yours
Beyond the swelling sea;
And, scarlet-vested almsman,
Your latest dole I cast;
For, robin, on your English face,
I look, perchance, my last.
Yet, scarlet one, so long I've loved
Your painted form to know,
There's a dainty gift at parting—
Ay, more than crumbs I throw;
For a pleasant daylight dream
Have you ever been to me,
And my thanks and love I fling you
Ere I pass the rolling sea.
Your painted form to know,
There's a dainty gift at parting—
Ay, more than crumbs I throw;
For a pleasant daylight dream
Have you ever been to me,
And my thanks and love I fling you
Ere I pass the rolling sea.
AUSTRALIA.
Oh, parch'd—parch'd are the long grey plains
That stretch from round us here;
In vain the sound of coming rains
The dry air pines to hear;
Along the river's bed
The earth is crack'd and dry,
Save where, in hot green pools,
The fishes, gasping, die.
That stretch from round us here;
In vain the sound of coming rains
The dry air pines to hear;
Along the river's bed
The earth is crack'd and dry,
Save where, in hot green pools,
The fishes, gasping, die.
No rain—no rain—still hot white dust
In blinding clouds sweeps by,
And still the hot wind burns along
Beneath the scorching sky.
Alas, where, fresh and green,
Arose our young year's wheat,
But fields of wither'd stalks,
Stand, blackening in the heat.
In blinding clouds sweeps by,
And still the hot wind burns along
Beneath the scorching sky.
Alas, where, fresh and green,
Arose our young year's wheat,
But fields of wither'd stalks,
Stand, blackening in the heat.
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Our garden flowers—our English flowers—
So tended, that the thought
Of happy hours afar we spent
Might often back be brought—
The daisy 'twas my pride,
To water day by day—
The primrose—all have died,
Or wither fast away.
So tended, that the thought
Of happy hours afar we spent
Might often back be brought—
The daisy 'twas my pride,
To water day by day—
The primrose—all have died,
Or wither fast away.
Oh, for green England's gurgling brooks!
The herdsman has to tell
That far away the cows he drove
To try the chalk-pit well;
Their latest hope was there,
But they found it parch'd and dry,
With its hot depths glaring blinding white
Against the burning sky.
The herdsman has to tell
That far away the cows he drove
To try the chalk-pit well;
Their latest hope was there,
But they found it parch'd and dry,
With its hot depths glaring blinding white
Against the burning sky.
No sound that tells of freshness—
Of coming rain—alone
The rattle of the fiery dust
Against the casement, blown,
The dingo's howl for water—
Our parch'd cows moaning there,
And the locust's wither'd song, that seems
To sear the very air,
Of coming rain—alone
The rattle of the fiery dust
Against the casement, blown,
The dingo's howl for water—
Our parch'd cows moaning there,
And the locust's wither'd song, that seems
To sear the very air,
Oh, weary, weary was the day
That happiness we sold,
And the pleasant light of England,
For the hopes of sudden gold—
And weary is the weary thought,
That never, but in dreams,
We shall tread again her meadow-paths
Or wander by her streams!
That happiness we sold,
And the pleasant light of England,
For the hopes of sudden gold—
And weary is the weary thought,
That never, but in dreams,
We shall tread again her meadow-paths
Or wander by her streams!
Oh, for the fresh, cool airs
That, round the temples, blow,
Of those, through England's orchards,
Through England's woods, that go!
Oh, would I were again
Where never more I'll be,
In the land I've left for ever—
In my home beyond the sea!
That, round the temples, blow,
Of those, through England's orchards,
Through England's woods, that go!
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Where never more I'll be,
In the land I've left for ever—
In my home beyond the sea!
AUSTRALIA.
The robin lighted on the tree,
And merrily he sang,
Till, with his cheerful minstrelsy,
The lonely clearing rang;
The song came clear and shrill
Through the open window near,
And hush'd grew all and still
That strange sweet voice to hear.
And merrily he sang,
Till, with his cheerful minstrelsy,
The lonely clearing rang;
The song came clear and shrill
Through the open window near,
And hush'd grew all and still
That strange sweet voice to hear.
Upon his broad and horny hand
The settler leans his brow,
And far from his adopted land,
His thoughts are wandering now;—
With finger raised—fixed eye—
Lips parted for a word,
The wife sits listening by—
What sings it of, sweet bird?
The settler leans his brow,
And far from his adopted land,
His thoughts are wandering now;—
With finger raised—fixed eye—
Lips parted for a word,
The wife sits listening by—
What sings it of, sweet bird?
Oh, dwellers in the southern sea,
'Twas thus the redbreast sung,
Full well are known the cots to me,
Green England's lanes among;
The homesteads, well I know,
Whose blue smoke's curling still
From all her thymy downs and vales,
From ev'ry grassy hill.
'Twas thus the redbreast sung,
Full well are known the cots to me,
Green England's lanes among;
The homesteads, well I know,
Whose blue smoke's curling still
From all her thymy downs and vales,
From ev'ry grassy hill.
Oh, pleasant is the green, green Spring,
They heard the redbreast sing,
In England's woods and verdant lanes
How pleasant is the Spring!
How, through the soft warm sunshine
Of April's golden hours,
Laugh up to heaven her villages,
Ingarlanded with flowers!
They heard the redbreast sing,
In England's woods and verdant lanes
How pleasant is the Spring!
How, through the soft warm sunshine
Of April's golden hours,
Laugh up to heaven her villages,
Ingarlanded with flowers!
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There, noisy of its happiness,
The brook is bubbling by,
And there, in pastures green and deep,
The happy cattle lie;
The daisy lights the meadow—
The speedwell stars the lane,
And the glory of the golden furze
Burns on her heaths again.
The brook is bubbling by,
And there, in pastures green and deep,
The happy cattle lie;
The daisy lights the meadow—
The speedwell stars the lane,
And the glory of the golden furze
Burns on her heaths again.
Oh, for the pleasant primrose banks
That bask beneath her skies!
Oh, for the thousand silver streams
Her summer never dries!
Oh, but for one sweet hour,
In happiness to roam
Among your farms and villages,
My own green island home!
That bask beneath her skies!
Oh, for the thousand silver streams
Her summer never dries!
Oh, but for one sweet hour,
In happiness to roam
Among your farms and villages,
My own green island home!
No withering winds beneath her skies
Her fields' fair hopes destroy,
For, gentle as the airs of May,
Her breezes bring but joy;
The wealth her Spring has told
His treasuries shall win,
By Autumn's banded sickles
With songs is garner'd in.
Her fields' fair hopes destroy,
For, gentle as the airs of May,
Her breezes bring but joy;
The wealth her Spring has told
His treasuries shall win,
By Autumn's banded sickles
With songs is garner'd in.
Then, dwellers in the southern sea,
Away before the wind,
And bless the swelling sails that leave
This streamless land behind;
Again, again, seek happiness,
No more from it to roam,
And bless the redbreast's simple song
That taught the worth of home.
Away before the wind,
And bless the swelling sails that leave
This streamless land behind;
Again, again, seek happiness,
No more from it to roam,
And bless the redbreast's simple song
That taught the worth of home.
ENGLAND.
Oh, Mary, there's the robin;
Quick—throw the window up,
For, while I have a meal to share,
With me he's free to sup;
There—there—let daintiest crumbs
In part your guerdon be,
For the song that lured us back again
Across the surging sea.
Quick—throw the window up,
For, while I have a meal to share,
With me he's free to sup;
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In part your guerdon be,
For the song that lured us back again
Across the surging sea.
Oh, fair is nature everywhere,
In heaven—on land and sea,
But loveliest in my own green land
Is nature still to me.
And still dear shall be the song,
Still the singer shall be dear
That taught me that the constant home
Of happiness was here.
In heaven—on land and sea,
But loveliest in my own green land
Is nature still to me.
And still dear shall be the song,
Still the singer shall be dear
That taught me that the constant home
Of happiness was here.
Oh, England—England, land of lands,
Thank heaven! I've wisdom earn'd—
Through sorrow and heartsickness, well,
Thy worth, green land, I've learn'd;
Now blessings track the song that taught
The girdling billows foam
Around no land that mates with thee,
My own green island home.
Thank heaven! I've wisdom earn'd—
Through sorrow and heartsickness, well,
Thy worth, green land, I've learn'd;
Now blessings track the song that taught
The girdling billows foam
Around no land that mates with thee,
My own green island home.
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