Classic Poem

B EHOLD our minstrel Robin! trustful, tame,
Bird with the stomacher of glowing hue!
How caught his little breast that badge of flame?
Thus, if old legends tell the story true: —
'Tis said — poetic faith believes the tale —
He drank some blood-drops of that precious Fount
Which gushed on awful Clavary's holy mount,
When Nature shuddered, and when men grew pale.
Then , says the legend — let none scorn to hear —
His sympathetic bosom took the stain,
That crimson evidence of Hallowed pain
Which unto Mercy drew the sinner near;
And from that dread yet Man-redeeming day,
Robin became the bird which children fear to slay.

Ah, gentle Robin! I delight to hear,
From hawthorn, apple-tree, or cottage sill,
Thy melting melody, so soft and clear,
Light as the thinklings of a tiny rill.
The wild notes issuing from thy eloquent bill
Are partly sorrowful and partly sad,
Like chastened Grief, endeavouring to be glad,
And wile with words the memory of ill.
But the consoling sounds, wherever heard,
Fall on my heart like drops of genial balm;
Soothe the sharp pangs of many a hope deferred,
And interfuse a sense of inward calm, —
A sense of resignation to the Will
That smites, some hidden goodness to fulfil.

Oh! patient Robin! may I learn from thee,
Thou little teacher on that naked tree, —
A due submission unto Heaven's behest, —
Cheerful humility, and conscious power
To meet and struggle with the roughest hour,
Whate'er the trial, and whate'er the test;
Thankful for smallest blessings, when they come,
Calm in my sorrows, in my triumphs dumb,
Unbowed by care, unawed by lawless wrong;
Firm to endure, but ready to enjoy,
Heedless of scorn, superior to annoy,
And prompt to sing an uncomplaining song, —
A song of praise, too, Robin, like thine own,
Haply to reach the everlasting Throne!