The Robin

The spring is here, with its warbling throng,
And the Robin is on the tree,
Trough grove and garden, he speeds along,
He comes with a song, – he comes with a song,
And he’ll be a neighbour to thee.

See, that is his mate by his side, I ween,
And who are so happy as they?
Their chamber is shaded with curtains green,
Three little blue eggs in its bed are seen,
And their rent with a song they’ll pay.

She broods o’er the nest, while his wing is spread,
Wherever their food may be found,
‘Tis to her that he hastes with that morsel of bread,-
The shot of the fowler! alas, he is dead!
He lies bleeding on the ground.

And all day long, that widow’d bird,
For her partner call’d in vain,
And if at midnight, the branches stirr’d,
She thought ’twas his well-known wing she heard,
But he never return’d again.

Half famish’d, she sped in her deep despair,
To search for a crumb or seed,
When a truant boy with a reckless air,
Climb’d up to her nest, and I cannot bear
To tell of his cruel deed.

She hasted back, but what met her view
As she soar’d with an eager eye?
Her home was wreck’d, and its treasures too,
And round and round in her anguish she flew,
With a loud and frantic cry.

And there through many a summer’s day,
Her piercing wail was heard,
Till once near that desolte home there lay,
a famish’d Robin, as cold as clay,
And I knew ’twas that mourner-bird.

Then I thought of the boy who rifled the nest,
How bitter his tears must flow,
When conscience should wake in his sinful breast,
And trouble his dream, and break his rest,
With the cry of that Robin’s woe.