Lines To A Robin.

Written during a severe Winter.     Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why,     From me and Pity do you fly?     Your little heart against your plumes     Beats hard - ah! dreary are these glooms!     Famine has chok'd the note of joy     That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy.     Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy?     And why, when I approach you, fly?     The crumbs which at your feet I strew     Are only meant to nourish you;     They are not thrown with base decoy,     To rob you of one hour of joy.     Come, follow to my silent mill,     That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;     There will I house your trembling form,     There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm:     And, when your little heart grows strong,     I'll ask you for your simple song;     And, when you will not tarry more,     Open shall be my wicket-door;     And freely, when you chirp "adieu,"     I'll wish you well, sweet warbler! too;     I'll wish you many a summer-hour     On top of tree, or abbey-tow'r.     When Spring her wasted form retrieves,     And gives your little roof its leaves,     May you (a happy lover) find     A kindred partner to your mind:     And when, amid the tangled spray,     The sun shall shoot a parting ray,     May all within your mossy nest     Be safe, be merry, and be blest.