LINES
TO A ROBIN.
Written during a severe Winter.
Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why,
From me and Pity do you fly?
Your little heart against your plumes
Beats hard—ah! dreary are these glooms!
Famine has chok’d the note of joy
That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy.
Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy?
And why, when I approach you, fly?
The crumbs which at your feet I strew
Are only meant to nourish you;
They are not thrown with base decoy,
To rob you of one hour of joy.
Come, follow to my silent mill,
That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;
There will I house your trembling form,
There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm:
And, when your little heart grows strong,
I’ll ask you for your simple song;
And, when you will not tarry more,
Open shall be my wicket-door;
And freely, when you chirp “adieu,”
I’ll wish you well, sweet warbler! too;
I’ll wish you many a summer-hour
On top of tree, or abbey-tow’r.
When Spring her wasted form retrieves,
And gives your little roof its leaves,
May you (a happy lover) find
A kindred partner to your mind:
And when, amid the tangled spray,
The sun shall shoot a parting ray,
May all within your mossy nest
Be safe, be merry, and be blest.