Sonnet.

Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights as thou art led By things that tempt a simple one like thee— I would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years. Idly to lie beneath an April sun, Pressing the perfume from the tender grass; To watch a joyous rivulet leap on With the clear tinkle of a music glass, And as I saw the early robin pass, To hear him thro' his little compass run— Hath been a joy that I shall no more know Before I to my better portion go.