Hark to the robin—whistling clear—
The requiem of the dying year—
Amidst the garden bower.
He quits his native forest shade,
Ere ruin stern hath there display'd
Its desolating power.
He sings—but not the song of love—
No,—that is for the quick'ning grove—
The brightly budding tree.
And tho' we listen and rejoice;