LINES TO A ROBIN.

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.