26.12.2010, 12:33
TO THE ROBIN.
The ox is all as happy in his stall
As when he low'd i' the summer's yellow eve,
Browsing the king-cup slopes ; but no reprieve
Is left for thee, save thy sweet madrigal,
Poor robin : and severer days will fall.
Bethink thee well of all yon frosted sward,
The orchard-path, so desolate and hard.
And meadow-runnels, with no voice at all !
Then feed with me, poor warbler, household bird,
And glad me with thy song so sadly timed,
And be on thankful ears thy lay conferr'd ;
So, till her latest rhyme my muse hath rhymed,
Thy voice shall with a pleasant thrill be heard.
And with a poet's fear, when twigs are limed.
The ox is all as happy in his stall
As when he low'd i' the summer's yellow eve,
Browsing the king-cup slopes ; but no reprieve
Is left for thee, save thy sweet madrigal,
Poor robin : and severer days will fall.
Bethink thee well of all yon frosted sward,
The orchard-path, so desolate and hard.
And meadow-runnels, with no voice at all !
Then feed with me, poor warbler, household bird,
And glad me with thy song so sadly timed,
And be on thankful ears thy lay conferr'd ;
So, till her latest rhyme my muse hath rhymed,
Thy voice shall with a pleasant thrill be heard.
And with a poet's fear, when twigs are limed.