THE FIRST ROBIN.
Herald of the happy year,
Robin redbreast, art thou here?
Welcome to thy destined goal;
Welcome, songster of the soul!
Age and Childhood find in thee
Kindred bond of sympathy;
Hope and Memory are one
In thy song’s sweet unison.
Common freehold all hearts claim
In thy nature’s artless aim;
Best of priests and poets, thou,
Singing on the leafless bough.
Mead and mountain, wood and wold,
Wait the rapture manifold,
Which shall prove thee saint and seer,
Dearest minstrel of the year!
Every note like April rain—
Thou transmutest, in thy strain,
With the season’s subtle power,
Winter’s dearth to summer’s dower.
Glows the mold with vernal fire
Kindled by thy love’s desire;
Nature wakens, at thy call,
To her Easter festival.
Mateless messenger divine!
Peerless privilege is thine:
Thou interpretest to Faith
The deep mystery of death.