Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths, as moved with one desire,
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers, or a richer produce (did it suit
The season), sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought? Is the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway? Or does it suit our humor to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colors whether they deceive or no?
* The small wild Geranium known by that name.
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,
Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompense is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft ;
With what nice care equivalents are given;
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.
MARCH, 1840.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)
THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
a kindling of the morn,
That lip, a rose-bud from the thorn,
I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, Of bliss that grows without a care,
(How can it where love never dies?)—
Whispering of promise, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings
From his smoothly gliding wings.
What mortal form, what earthly face,
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colors, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed;
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours.
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,
That touchingly bespeaks thee born
Life's daily tasks with them to share
Who, whether from their lowly bed
They rise, or rest the weary head,
Ponder the blessing they entreat
From Heaven, and feel what they repeat,
While they give utterance to the prayer
That asks for daily bread.
TO A REDBREAST- (IN SICKNESS).
STAY, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.
Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song,
A charm, that thought cannot destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
And with a more than earthly power
My passing Spirit cheer.
Then, little Bird, this boon confer:
Come, and my requiem sing,
Nor fail to be the harbinger
Of everlasting Spring.
I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell
In a large house of public charity,
Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell,
With numbers near, alas! no company.
When he could creep about, at will, though poor
And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed
A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door
Came not, but in a lane partook his bread.
There, at the root of one particular tree,
An easy seat this worn-out Laborer found,
While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his knee
Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground.
Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day; What signs of mutual gladness when they met ! Think of their common peace, their simple play, The parting moment and its fond regret.
Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil,
In spite of season's change, its own demand,
By fluttering pinions here and busy bill;
There by caresses from a tremulous hand.
Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong
Was formed between the solitary pair,
That, when his fate had housed him 'mid a throng,
The Captive shunned all converse proffered there.
Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and gone; But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed,
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