That Christ was crowned in cruel scorn;
And bore away one bleeding thorn,
That so, the blush upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow was imprest:
And thence thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.
Sweet Robin, would that I might be
Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee;
Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the cross;
Live ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship with human kind ;
And take my pattern still from thee,
In gentleness and constancy.
EA-BIRD! haunter of the wave,
over itse
Half engulfed where yawns the cave
The billow forms in rolling over;
Sea-bird! seeker of the storm!
In its shriek thou dost rejoice;
Sending from thy bosom warm
Answer shriller than its voice.
Bird of nervous wingèd flight,
Flashing silvery to the sun,
Sporting with the sea-foam white,
When will thy wild course be done?
Whither tends it? Has the shore
No alluring haunt for thee?
Nook with tangled vines grown o'er,
Scented shrub, or leafy tree?
Is the purple sea-weed rarer
Than the violet of the spring?
Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer
Than the apple's blossoming?
Shady grove, and sunny slope,—
Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet.
Where no winds too rudely swell,
But in whispers, as they pass,
Of the fragrant flow'ret tell,
Hidden in the tender grass. There the mock-bird sings of love; There the robin builds his nest ; There the gentle-hearted dove, Brooding, takes her blissful rest.
Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight:
Gone! where dark waves foam and dash,
Like a lone star on the night
Far I see his white wing flash.
He obeyeth God's behest,
All their destiny fulfil:
Tempests some are born to breast,—
Some to worship, and be still.
If I struggle with the storm
On life's ever-changing sea,
Where cold mists enwrap the form,
My harsh destiny must be.
Sea-bird! thus may I abide
Cheerful the allotment given,
And, rising o'er the ruffled tide,
Escape, at last, like thee, to heaven!
THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL
From the German
N the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In His pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,
Sees He how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness :
"Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.
Y little doves have left a nest
M Upon an Indian tree,
Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
Or motion from the sea:
Forever there the sea-winds go
With sunlit paces, to and fro.
The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down:
And there my little doves did sit
With feathers softly brown,
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Nature's deep delight.
And God them taught at every close
Of water far, and wind
And lifted leaf, to interpose
Their chanting voices kind;
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.
My little doves were borne away
From that glad nest of theirs ;
Across an ocean foaming aye,
And tempest-clouded airs.
My little doves! who lately knew
The sky and wave by warmth and blue!
And now within the city prison,
In mist and chillness pent,
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