"When the first dawn of morn begins to peep, "Their strains from slumber shall thine

eyes unclose,

"And when at eve thou sink'st again to sleep, "Their gentle songs shall soothe thee to repose."

Sweet bird! soft Spring shall never visit thee, Thine eyes are clos'd in death's cold gloomy night;

In vain once more shall bloom that aged tree, Thy tender brood shall ne'er the woods 'delight.

Thy little form beneath the sod shall lie, And there the violets of the Spring shall bloom;

And when my mournful footsteps wander nigh,

I'll drop a tear on little Robin's tomb.

Monthly Visitor, February, 1802.

INVITATION to the REDBREAST.

STAY warbler, nor forsake my cot,
Though little I've to spare,
With you-contented with my lot,
I will that little share.

Hark! how the wind around thee howls,
See hills of snow arise,

High o'er thy head the falcón prowls,
Dark clouds obscure the skies.

Then, ah! within my cottage Test,
Nor heedless seek thy doom;
The winter storm, in terror drest,
Spreads wide its mournful gloom.

But here, secure from ev'ry ill,

From wind, and hail, and snow, No fears thy gentle breast shall fill, No dangers shalt thou know.

My pittance, though but scant, each day With thee will I divide,

When on my humble bed I lie,

Ah! perch thee by my side.

And when the genial Spring returns,
And blossoms deck each tree;
If freedom's flame within thee burns
Sweet bird thou shalt be free.

Then seek a mate, and built your nest,
Yon hawthorn trees among;

And, oh! each morn, my lovely guest,
Awake me with a song.

Monthly Mirror.

EPITAPH on a ROBIN.

BENEATH this mossy sod, this lap of love,
Lies a poor tenant of the vocal grove;
No gaudy plume, of many colour'd dyes,
Mark'd the proud offspring of exotic skies;
No minstrel song had he to charm the ear,
Or draw from pity's eye the trembling tear;
Yet with a simple strain, and void of art,
He found a passage to each infant heart;
And, as with cold he shiver'd near their cot,
They felt his sorrows and bewail'd his lọt,

With them he shar'd the pittance of their feast, And in their bosoms built his little nest.

But must the muse the mournful hour relate Which seal'd the period of their darling's fate, Enough their fond, their true regard to tell, How lov'd he liv'd, and how lamented fell! Those gentle hands, which once reviv'd his breath,

Would, vainly, ward the stroke of death.

They mourn'd his fall with many a pensive tear,
And bade his lov'd remains find shelter here.
And oft, at fading hour of eve they'll bring
The infant treasures of the opening spring;
The woodbine here in Nature's grace shall bloom,
Waving in wild luxuriance o'er his tomb;
The soft-ey'd daisy lends its modest dyes,
To consecrate the turf where Robin lies.

Whoe'er by chance these artless lines may see, Blame not the poet's simple theme; since He Who form'd the rainbow, and ordain'd the shower,

Gave to the lightning wings, the thunder power,

Observes, "with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a Robin fall.”

Moral Views.

On a REDBREAST.

AMID the storm, disordered high in air,
It chanc'd a solitary Redbreast flew;
Full soon, alas! burl'd on the weedy plain,
The little love-bird gleam'd upon my view.

Soft from the ground its storm-beat form I rais'd,

And fruitless strove to warm it in my breast;

The cold, cold hand of death, its veins had chill'd,

And giv'n the gem of life eternal rest.

In vain it bent its head on breast reclin'd,

In yain it bent so low its charming head ; In vain, so late of heaven-born freedom proud, Q'er daisied fields its airy pinions spread.