Epitaph [1] On A Robin Redbreast.

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone and leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
--Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

Samuel Rogers

Samuel Rogers was an English poet during the Romantic period. Born in 1763, he grew a reputation not for his volume of work but rather for the elegance and refinement of his poetry. His notable works include 'The Pleasures of Memory' which was well received. Rogers was also known for his role as a patron of the arts and his significant art collection. He passed away in 1855 and is often remembered more for his influence in literary circles than for his poetry itself.

Samuel Rogers

To The Butterfly.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

Two Sisters.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

The Alps At Day-Break.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

Verses Written In Westminster Abbey. [1]

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

English

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Epitaph On A Free But Tame Redbreast, A Favourite Of Miss Sally Hurdis.

These are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.


One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perchd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.


Alarmd, she calld him, and perplexd,
She sought him, but in vain
That day he came not , nor the next,
Nor ever came again.


She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knowsso secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.


Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robins stead,
Poor Sallys tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.


But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame;

William Cowper

Legend Of The Canadian Robin

Is it Man alone who merits
Immortality or death?
Each created thing inherits
Equal air and common breath.

Souls pass onward: some are ranging
Happy hunting-grounds, and some
Are as joyous, though in changing
Form be altered, language dumb.

Beauteous all, if fur or feather,
Strength or gift of song be theirs;
He who planted all together
Equally their fate prepares.

Like to Time, that dies not, living
Through the change the seasons bring,
So men, dying, are but giving
Life to some fleet foot or wing.

Bird and beast the Savage cherished,
But the Robins loved he best;
O'er the grave where he has perished
They shall thrive and build their nest.

Hunted by the white invader,
Vanish ancient races all;
Yet no ...

John Campbell

The Redbreast - Suggested In A Westmoreland Cottage

Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air
From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.
But pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays the expert ventriloquist;
And, caught by glimpses now, now missed,
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without!
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustained by delicate illusion?
He's at your elbow, to your feeling
The notes are from the floor or ceiling;
And there's a rid...

William Wordsworth

To Robin Red-Breast

Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
With leaves and moss-work for to cover me;
And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister!
For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:
Here, Here the tomb of Robin Herrick is!

Robert Herrick

Robin Redbreast

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away,
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
Wh...

William Allingham

To A Redbreast (In Sickness)

Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.

Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song;
A charm, 'that' thought can not destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.

Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
And with a more than earthly power
My passing Spirit cheer.

Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
Come, and my requiem sing,
Nor fail to be the harbinger
Of everlasting Spring.

William Wordsworth