I knew an aged Robin — he would sit, When wint'ry blasts had bar'd each forest tree; And he would sing: O! I remember yet Each varying tone of sweet thrill'd harmony. And whilst all round him look'd blank misery, And other warblers droop'd their wings, — mute, tame; This little hero's bosom was all glee, And soft and sweet each morning whistle came. His was the heart's blest impulse, to be free: In some green nook retir'd, he plum'd his wing; And from some bough, — his throne of Liberty,— He sang such strains as free birds only sing. Apollo's Nestor in this Robin see, (Drawn by weak hand), a picture blithe of thee. T. ENORT SMITH.
