Poem for 2/3/22 - The Robin - by George Daniel

 THE ROBIN

GEORGE DANIEL (1616-1657)

Poor bird! I do not envy thee;

Pleased in the gentle melody

Of thy own song.

Let crabbèd winter silence all

The wingèd choir; he never shall

Chain up thy tongue:

Poor innocent:

When I would please myself, I look on thee:

And guess some sparks of that felicity.

That self-content.

When the bleak face of winter spreads

The carth, and violates the meads

Of all their pride;

When sapless trees and flowers are fed,

Back to their causes, and lie dead

To all beside:

I see thee set

Bidding defiance to the bitter air,

Upon a withered spray; by cold made bare,

And drooping yet.

There, full in notes, to ravish all

My earth, I wonder what to call

My dullness; when

I hear thee, pretty creature, bring

Thy better odes of praise, and sing,

To puzzle men:

Poor pious elf!

I am instructed by thy harmony,

To sing the time's uncertainty,

Safe in myself.

Poor redbreast, carol out thy lay,

And teach us mortals what to say.

Here cease the choir

Of airy choristers: no more

Mingle your notes; but catch a store

From her sweet lyre;

You are but weak,

Mere summer chanters: you have neither wing

Nor voice, in winter. Pretty redbreast, sing,

What I would speak.