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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
        Poor Robin sits and sings alone,
  When showers of driving sleet,
By the cold winds of winter blown,
  The cottage casement beat.
Rev. Wm. Lisle Bowles.    
        The wood-robin sings at my door,
  And her song is the sweetest I hear
From all the sweet birds that incessantly pour
  Their notes through the noon of the year.
James G. Clarke.    
        Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild
To lie submissive under household hands
With beating heart that no love understands,
And scared eye, like a child
Who only knows that he is all alone
And summer’s gone.
D. M. Mulock.    
        Bearing His cross, while Christ passed forth forlorn,
His God-like forehead by the mock crown torn,
A little bird took from that crown one thorn.
To soothe the dear Redeemer’s throbbing head,
That bird did what she could; His blood, ’tis said,
Down dropping, dyed her tender bosom red.
Since then no wanton boy disturbs her nest;
Weasel nor wild cat will her young molest;
All sacred deem the bird of ruddy breast.
        On fair Britannia’s isle, bright bird,
  A legend strange is told of thee,—
’Tis said thy blithesome song was hushed
  While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary,
Bowed ’neath the sins of all mankind;
  And humbled to the very dust
By the vile cross, while viler man
  Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just.
Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down
  By our transgressions,—faint and weak,
Crushed by an angry judge’s frown,
  And agonies no word can speak,—
’Twas then, dear bird, the legend says
  That thou, from out His crown, didst tear
The thorns, to lighten the distress,
  And ease the pain that he must bear.
While pendant from thy tiny beak
  The gory points thy bosom pressed,
And crimsoned with thy Saviour’s blood
  The sober brownness of thy breast!
Since which proud hour for thee and thine
  As an especial sign of grace
God pours like sacramental wine
  Red signs of favor o’er thy race!
Delle W. Norton.    

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