University of Virginia Library

THE ROBINS NEST

Come luscious spring come with thy mossy roots
Thy weed strown banks—young grass—& tender shoots
Of woods new plashed sweet smells of opening blooms
Sweet sunny mornings & right glorious dooms
Of happiness—to seek & harbour in
Far from the ruder worlds inglorious din
Who see no glory but in sordid pelf
& nought of greatness but its little self
Scorning the splendid gift that nature gives
Where natures glory ever breaths & lives
Seated in crimping ferns uncurling now
In russet fringes ere in leaves they bow
& moss as green as silk—there let me be
By the grey powdered trunk of old oak tree
Buried in green delights to which the heart
Clings with delight & beats as loath to part
The birds unbid come round about to give
Their music to my pleasures—wild flowers live
About as if for me—they smile & bloom
Like uninvited guests that love to come
Their wild fragrant offerings all to bring
Paying me kindness like a throned king
Lost in such extacys in this old spot
I feel that rapture which the world hath not
That joy like health that flushes in my face
Amid the brambles of this ancient place
Shut out from all but that superior power
That guards & glads & cheers me every hour
That wraps me like a mantle from the storm
Of care & bids the cold[est] hope be warm
That speaks in spots where all things silent be
In words not heard but felt—each ancient tree
With lickens deckt—times hoary pedigree
Becomes a monitor to teach & bless
& rid me of the evils cares possess
& bids me look above the trivial things
To which prides mecenary spirit clings
The pomps the wealth & artificial toys
That men call wealth beleagued with strife & noise
To seek the silence of their ancient reign
& be my self in memory once again
To trace the path of briar entangled holt
Or bushy closen where the wanton colt
Crops the young juicey leaves from off the hedge
In this old wood where birds their passions pledge
& court & build & sing their under song
In joys own cue that to their hearts belong
Having no wish or want unreconsiled
But spell bound to their homes within the wild
Where old neglect lives patron & befriends
Their homes with safetys wildness—where nought lends
A hand to injure—root up or disturb
The things of this old place—there is no curb
Of interest industry or slavish gain
To war with nature so the weeds remain
& wear an ancient passion that arrays
Ones feelings with the shadows of old days
The rest of peace the sacredness of mind
In such deep solitudes we seek & find
Where moss grows old & keeps an evergreen
& footmarks seem like miracles when seen
So little meddling toil doth trouble here
The very weeds as patriarchs appear
& if a plant ones curious eyes delight
In this old ancient solitude we might
Come ten years hence of trouble dreaming ill
& find them like old tennants peaceful still
Here the wood robin rustling on the leaves
With fluttering step each visitor recieves
Yet from his ancient home he seldom stirs
In heart content on these dead teazle burs
He sits [&] trembles oer his under notes
So rich—joy almost choaks his little throat
With extacy & from his own heart flows
That joy himself & partner only knows
He seems to have small fear but hops & comes
Close to ones feet as if he looked for crumbs
& when the woodman strinkles some around
He leaves the twig & hops upon the ground
& feeds untill his little daintys cloy
Then claps his little wings & sings for joy
& when in woodland solitudes I wend
I always hail him as my hermit friend
& naturally enough whenere they come
Before me search my pockets for a crumb
At which he turns his eye & seems to stand
As if expecting somthing from my hand
& thus these feathered heirs of solitude
Remain the tennants of this quiet wood
& live in melody & make their home
& never seem to have a wish to roam
Beside this ash stulp where in years gone bye
The thrush had built & taught her young to flye
Where still the nest half filled with leaves remains
With moss still green amid the twisting grains
Here on the ground & sheltered at its foot
The nest is hid close at its mossy root
Composed of moss & grass & lined with hair
& five brun-coloured eggs snug sheltered there
& bye & bye a happy brood will be
The tennants of this woodland privacy