THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

By Mathilde Blind

The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill

The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower

Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower

In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still.

Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill

Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower,

Have in adversity's inclement hour

Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.

But hearken! Yonder russet bird among

The crimson clusters of the homely thorn

Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song —

A blending of sweet hope and resignation:

Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn,

One friend becomes its last, best consolation.