Robin, American 



"My poor Bronrhuddyn, my breast-burned bird, 

 Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, 



Very dear to the heart of our Lord- 

 Is he who pities the lost like Him." 



"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth: 

 "Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well; 



Each good thought is a drop wherewith 

 To cool and lessen the fires of hell. 



" Prayers of love like raindrops fall, 



Tears of pity are cooling dew, 

 And dear to the heart of our Lord are all 



Who suffer like Him in the good they do." 



WHITTIER. 



Sir Robin 



Rollicking Robin is here again. 

 What does he care for the April rain? 

 Care for it? Glad of it. Doesn't he know 

 That the April rain carries off the snow, 

 And coaxes out leaves to shadow his nest, 

 And washes his pretty red Easter vest, 

 And makes the juice of the cherry sweet, 

 For his hungry little robins to eat? 



"Ha! ha! ha!" hear the jolly bird laugh. 



"That isn't the best of the story by half!" 



Gentleman Robin, he walks up and down, 

 Dressed in orange-tawny and black and brown. 

 Though his eye is so proud and his step so firm, 



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