 | Gen. Albert Pike's poems |  |
172
TO A ROBIN.
WRITTEN IN NEW MEXICO ON HEARING THE SONG OF THE ONLY RED-BREAST I EVER SAW THERE.
Hush, where art thou clinging,
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet as a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand.
And thou art now
As merry as though thou wert singing at home,
Far away, in the spray
Of a warm shower raining through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wert hid, to the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf in its greenness of Spring,
With thy nest lurking 'mid a gray heaven of shade,
To protect thy dear young from all harm fitly made.
And what art thou singing,
Bird of my own native land?
Thy song is as sweet as a fairy's feet
Stepping on silver sand.
And thou art now
As merry as though thou wert singing at home,
Far away, in the spray
Of a warm shower raining through odorous gloom;
Or as if thou wert hid, to the tip of thy wing,
By a broad oaken leaf in its greenness of Spring,
With thy nest lurking 'mid a gray heaven of shade,
To protect thy dear young from all harm fitly made.
Hush, hush! Look around thee!
Bleak mountains impound thee,
Cliffs gloomy, rocks barren and dead:
A desolate pine doth above thee incline,
But yields not a leaf for thy bed,
And lo! below,
No flowers of beauty or radiance bloom,
But weeds,—grayheads,—
That mutter and moan when the wind-tides loom.
And the rain never falls in the warm, sunny Spring,
To freshen thy heart or to strengthen thy wing.
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
Where Echo alone makes reply to thy song.
Bleak mountains impound thee,
Cliffs gloomy, rocks barren and dead:
A desolate pine doth above thee incline,
But yields not a leaf for thy bed,
173
No flowers of beauty or radiance bloom,
But weeds,—grayheads,—
That mutter and moan when the wind-tides loom.
And the rain never falls in the warm, sunny Spring,
To freshen thy heart or to strengthen thy wing.
But thou livest a hermit these deserts among,
Where Echo alone makes reply to thy song.
And while thou art chanting,
With head thus up-slanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
That flits with quick haste o'er the heart's lonely waste,
With an influence soothing, elysian:
Or a lone sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of sorrow;—
Ah! soon, too soon,
I must bid thee a long and a sad good morrow:—
But if thou wilt turn to the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again at the end of Spring,
And thy nest may be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and tendril and leaf shall entwine.
With head thus up-slanting,
Thou seemest a thought or a vision,
That flits with quick haste o'er the heart's lonely waste,
With an influence soothing, elysian:
Or a lone sweet tone,
That sounds for a time in the ear of sorrow;—
Ah! soon, too soon,
I must bid thee a long and a sad good morrow:—
But if thou wilt turn to the South thy wing,
I will meet thee again at the end of Spring,
And thy nest may be made where the peach and the vine
Shall shade thee, and tendril and leaf shall entwine.
Art thou not a stranger, and darer of danger,
That over these mountains hast flown?—
For the land of the North is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back on thy track;—
It were wiser and better for thee and me,
Than to moan, alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea;—
Then the eyes that we left to grow dim, months ago,
Will greet us again with their idolized glow.
Let us haste, then, sweet bird, to revisit our home,
Where the oak-leaves are green, and the sea-waters foam.
That over these mountains hast flown?—
For the land of the North is the clime of thy birth,
And here thou, like me, art alone.
Go back on thy track;—
174
Than to moan, alone,
So far from the waves of our own bright sea;—
Then the eyes that we left to grow dim, months ago,
Will greet us again with their idolized glow.
Let us haste, then, sweet bird, to revisit our home,
Where the oak-leaves are green, and the sea-waters foam.
1832.
| Gen. Albert Pike's poems | |