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.

The loneliest wood that man can trace

  To thee a pleasant dwelling gives;

In every town and crowded place

  The sweet domestic robin lives.

Go where one will, in every spot

  Thy little welcome mates appear;

And, like the daisy’s common lot,

  Thou’rt met with every where.

The swallow in the chimney tier,

  Or twittering martin in the eaves,

With half of love and half of fear

  His mortared dwelling shily weaves;

The sparrows in the thatch will shield;

  Yet they, as well as e’er they can,

Contrive with doubtful faith to build

  Beyond the reach of man.

But thou’rt less timid than the wren,

  Domestic and confiding bird!

And spots, the nearest haunts of men,

  Are oftenest for thy home preferred.

In garden-walls thou’lt build so low,

  Close where the bunch of fennel stands,

That e’en a child just taught to go

  May reach with tiny hands.

Sweet favoured bird! thy under-notes

  In summer’s music grow unknown,

The concert from a thousand throats

  Leaves thee as if to pipe alone;

No listening ear the shepherd lends,

  The simple ploughman marks thee not,

And then by all thy autumn friends

  Thou’rt missing and forgot.

The far-famed nightingale, that shares

  Cold public praise from every tongue,

The popular voice of music heirs,

  And injures much thy under-song:

Yet then my walks thy theme salutes;

  I find thee autumn’s favoured guest,

Gay piping on the hazel-roots

  Above thy mossy nest.

’Tis wrong that thou shouldst be despised,

  When these gay fickle birds appear;

They sing when summer flowers are prized--

  Thou at the dull and dying year.

Well! let the heedless and the gay

  Bepraise the voice of louder lays,

The joy thou steal’st from Sorrow’s day

  Is more to thee than praise.

And could my notes win aught from thine,

  My words but imitate thy lay,

Time could not then his charge resign,

  Nor throw the meanest verse away,

But ever at this mellow time,

  He should thy autumn praise prolong,

As they would share the happy prime

  Of thy eternal song.