Chink—chink—the Robin comes.
His near approach proclaims a dearth
Of food upon the ice-bound earth;—
He whistles for our crumbs.
But, like the child of want, he hails
Too oft where avarice prevails—
Devoid of charity;—
Where hearts 'neath rich-clad bosoms glow,
Yet never feel the inspiring throe
Of tender sympathy.