THE AUTUMN ROBIN
SWEET little bird in russet coat,
The livery of the closing year!
I love thy lonely plaintive note,
And tiny whispering song to hear.
While on the stile or garden seat,
I sit to watch the falling leaves,
The song thy little joys repeat,
My loneliness relieves.
And many are the lonely minds
That hear, and welcome thee anew;
Not Taste alone, but humble hinds,
Delight to praise, and love thee too.
The veriest clown, beside his cart,
Turns from his song with many a smile,
To see thee from the hedgerow start,
To sing upon the stile.
The shepherd on the fallen tree
Drops down to listen to thy lay,
And chides his dog beside his knee,
Who barks, and frightens thee away.
The hedger pauses, ere he knocks
The stake down in the meadow-gap—
The boy, who every songster mocks,
Forbears the gate to clap.
When in the hedge that hides the post
Thy ruddy bosom he surveys,—
Pleased with thy song, in transport lost,
He pausing mutters scraps of praise.
The maiden marks, at day’s decline,
Thee in the yard, on broken plough,
And stops her song, to listen thine,
Milking the brindled cow.
Thy simple faith in man’s esteem,
From every heart hath favour won;
Dangers to thee no dangers seem—
Thou seemest to court them more than shun.
The clown in winter takes his gun,
The barn-door flocking birds to slay,
Yet should’st thou in the danger run
He turns the tube away.
The gipsy boy, who seeks in glee
Blackberries for a dainty meal,
Laughs loud on first beholding thee,
When called, so near his presence steal.
He surely thinks thou know’st the call;
And though his hunger ill can spare
The fruit, he will not pluck it all,
But leaves some to thy share.
Upon the ditcher’s spade thou’lt hop,
For grubs and wreathing worms to search;
Where woodmen in the forest chop,
Thou’lt fearless on their faggots perch;
Nay, by the gipsies’ camp I stop,
And mark thee dwell a moment there,
To prune thy wing awhile, then drop,
The littered crumbs to share.
Domestic bird! thy pleasant face
Doth well thy common suit commend;
To meet thee in a stranger-place
Is meeting with an ancient friend.
I track the thicket’s glooms around,
And there, as loth to leave, again
Thou comest, as if thou knew the sound
And loved the sight of men.