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The REDBREAST and the BUTTERFLY.
Art thou the BirJ whom Man loves best.
Our little English Robin;
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland? The Bird, whom by some name.or other All men who know thee call their Brother, The Darling of Children and men? Could Father Adam open his eyes, And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again.
If the Butterfly knew but his friend
Hither his flight he would bend,
And find his way to me
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
His little heart is throbbing:
Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
Our consecrated Robin! That, after their bewildering, Did cover with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?
What ail'd thee Robin that thou could'st
A beautiful Creature,
The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
THE SAILOR's MOTHER.
One morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time) A Woman in the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient Spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke, With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?" She answer'd soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away; And I have been as far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property.
The Bird and Cage they both were his; 'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This Singing-bird hath gone with him; When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind; As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.