THE DEAD ROBIN.
See, Charles, how little robin lies,
The film is on his gentle eyes,
His pretty beak is parted wide,
And blood is flowing from his side;
He never, never will come more
To perch before the open door,
And never on the window pane
You'll hear him softly tap again.
Oh! what a very wicked thing
It was, to break his tender wing,
And deeper dye his breast of red,
And kill my darling robin dead.
You well may cry, my own dear brother,
We never shall have such another;
I'm sure I never saw or heard
So beautiful and sweet a bird ;
And Willy, when from school he comes,
Will run and get some little crumbs,
And fling them round and wait to see
Robin hop lightly from the tree,
To pick the crumbs up, one by one,
And sing and cherup when he'd done.
Then, when I show him robin dead,
How many bitter tears he'll shed !
Oh dear, how much I'd freely give
To make my little robin live ;
To hear once more the joyful note
Thrill sweetly in his swelling throat;
To see him skip from spray to spray,
And sing his happy hours away.
PLEASANT WEATHER.
'Tis a pleasant afternoon,
Not a cloud is in the sky,
And the brook with quiet tune,
Lazily goes winding by.
On the leafy chestnut bough,
See that little bird alight,
There! its wings are moving now,
And away it takes its flight.
How the trees all silent stand,
With their covering of green ! And my cheeks are hardly fanned By the wind that flies unseen.
See the white and quiet sheep
Lying on the sunny ground,
Some awake and some asleep,
While their lambs are playing round!
And the cows are on the hill,
Looking down upon the brook,
Idly chewing something still,
With a very stupid look.
And here, mother, Jane, are we,
Sitting on the mossy bank,
Underneath the old oak tree,
Where the sun the dew has drank.
We are idle with the rest,
With the earth and with the sky,
With the sea, whose placid breast
Swells no longer dark and high.
With each happy thing alive-
No, there is a busy bee,
Home, returning to its hive,
With wings laden heavily.
Honest creature! toiling on,
When you others idle see, Truly you the prize have won, For laborious industry !
A rose, most beautiful, had grown
Far in the wilderness alone,
There blooming, quite too frail to last,
Unguarded from the sweeping blast.
The Gardener came; with skillful toil,
He bore it to a friendly soil,
Where, nurtured by his gentle care,
Its blossomed fragrance filled the air.
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