242 THE SONG. 



a handful of grain. If he sees friendly faces, he will enter the room ; 

 he is not insensible to warmth ; cheered by this brief breath of 

 summer, the poor little one returns much stronger into the 

 winter. 



Toussenel is justly indignant that no poet has sung of the robin.* 

 But the bird himself is his own bard ; and if one could transcribe his 

 little song, it would express completely the humble poesy of his life. 

 The one which I have by my side, and which flies about my study, 

 for lack of listeners of his own species, perches before the glass, and, 

 without disturbing me, in a whispering voice utters his thoughts to 

 the ideal robin which he fancies he sees before him. And here is 

 their meaning, so far as a woman's hand has succeeded in preserv- 

 ino; it : — 



" Je suis le eompagnon 

 Du pauvre bucheron. 



" Je le suis en automne, 

 Au vent des premiers froids, 

 Et c'est moi qui lui dnnne 

 Le dernier chant des bois. 



" II est triste, et je chante 

 Sous mon deuil mele d'or. 

 Dans la brume pesante 

 Je vois I'azur encor. 



" Que ce chant te releve 

 Et te garde I'espoir ! 

 Qu'il te berce d'un reve, 

 Et te ramene au soir ! 



" Mais quand vient la gelee, 

 Je frappe a ton carreau. 



* It is unnecessary to remind the reader that this is true only of French, poets 

 Translator. 



