WHERE Flora holds her court, arrayed
In tints no art can borrow,
From that fair garden's leafy shade
Proceeds the tone of sorrow.
Why is the tone of sorrow heard?–
It is for Mary's favorite bird.
How late on gay and glossy wing,
He soared, as fancy led him:
And oft a grateful lay would sing
To her who loved and fed him:
And little dreamed of ill–but oh!
Some wintry blast has laid him low.
Poor Robin! when the sunny beams
Bespoke the year advancing,
With what fond visionary schemes
Thy heart perhaps was dancing–
Of days of joy, and nights of rest,
Of speckled egg, and downy nest.
Yet no such thoughts might e'er arise
To excite his joy or sorrow;
Too foolish he–or else too wise,
To think about to-morrow,
Perhaps within his tiny pate,
There was no room to speculate.
But e'er could Mary's curious quest
Discern, whene'er intruding,
What thoughts within her Robin's breast
From morn to night were brooding:
She knows–and then enough is known–
What hopes have fluttered in her own.
And may she learn from Robin's end,
To check hope's fond illusion;
And not unfaithful deem her friend,
Nor think it an intrusion,
Who thus with chemic art appears,
To extract a moral from her tears.
