LEGEND OF THE CANADIAN ROBIN

Is it Man alone who merits

Immortality or death?

Each created thing inherits

Equal air and common breath.

Souls pass onward: some are ranging

Happy hunting-grounds, and some

Are as joyous, though in changing

Form be altered, language dumb.

Beauteous all, if fur or feather,

Strength or gift of song be theirs;

He who planted all together

Equally their fate prepares.

Like to Time, that dies not, living

Through the change the seasons bring,

So men, dying, are but giving

Life to some fleet foot or wing.

Bird and beast the Savage cherished,

But the Robins loved he best;

O'er the grave where he has perished

They shall thrive and build their nest.

Hunted by the white invader,

Vanish ancient races all;

Yet no ruthless foe or trader

Silences the songster's call.

For the white man too rejoices,

Welcoming Spring's herald bird,

When the ice breaks, and the voices

From the rushing streams are heard.

Where the Indian's head-dress fluttered,

Pale the settler would recoil,

And his deepest curse was uttered

On the Red Son of the soil.

Later knew he not, when often

Gladness with the Robin came,

How a spirit-change could soften

Hate to dear affection's flame:

Knew not, as he heard, delighted,

Mellow notes in woodlands die,

How his heart had leaped, affrighted

At that voice in battle-cry.

For a youthful Savage, keeping

Long his cruel fast, had prayed,

All his soul in yearning steeping,

Not for glory, chase, or maid;

But to sing in joy, and wander,

Following the summer hours,

Drinking where the streams meander,

Feasting with the leaves and flowers.

Once his people saw him painting

Red his sides and red his breast,

Said: “His soul for fight is fainting,

War-paint suits the hero best;”

Went, when passed the night, loud calling,

Found him not, but where he lay

Saw a Robin, whose enthralling

Carol seemed to them to say;

“I have left you! I am going

Far from fast and winter pain;

When the laughing water's flowing

Hither I will come again!”

Thus his ebon locks still wearing,

With the war-paint on his breast,

Still he comes, our summer sharing,

And the lands he once possessed.

Finding in the white man's regions

Foemen none, but friends whose heart

Loves the Robins’ happy legions,

Mourns when, silent, they depart.