THE SONG. 



243 



I am the companion 

 Of the poor woodcutter. 



I follow him in autumn, 



When the first chill hreezes plain ; 



And I it is who warble 



The woodlands' last sweet strain. 



He is sad, and then I sing 

 Under my gilded shroud. 

 And 1 see the gleam of azure 

 Glint through the gathering cloud. 



Oh, may the song inspiring 

 Kevive Hope's flame again, 

 And at even guide thee homeward 

 Bv the magic of its strain ! 



But when the streams are frozen, 

 I tap at thy window-pane — 

 Oh. on the bird take pity, 

 Not a leaf, not a herb remain ! 



