84 OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
And reckless of the tumult and angry cries of scorn, 
From out Christ’s bleeding forehead it snatched one cruel thorn; 
Then o’er the Robin’s bosom the sacred blood flowed down, 
And with its ruby tintings dyed the plumes of russet brown. 
And evermore the sweet bird bore upon its tender breast 
The warm hue of the Savior’s blood, a shining seal impressed. 
Hence dearest to the peasant’s heart, ’mid birds of grove and plain, 
They hold the Robin, which assayed to soothe the Savior’s pain. 
A SEPTEMBER ROBIN. 
BY MISS MULOCK. 
My eyes are full, my silent heart is stirred 
Amid these days so bright 
Of ceaseless warmth and light; . 
Summer that will not die, 
Autumn, without one sigh, 
O’er sweet hours passing by— 
Cometh that tender note 
Out of thy tiny throat, 
Like grief, or love, insisting to be heard 
O little plaintive bird! 
No need of word. 
Well know I all your tale, forgotten bird ! 
Soon you and I together 
Must face the winter weather, 
Remembering how we sung 
Our primrose fields among, 
In days when life was young; 
Now all is growing old 
And the warm earth’s a-cold, 
Still with brave heart we’ll sing on, little bird! 
Sing only. Not one word. 
