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.

Hoskyns-Abrahall.    

	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.