And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said "my winsome marrow,
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the braes of Yarrow."
Wordswohth—Yarrow Unvisited.
ROBIN
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
William Collins—Odes. Dirge in Cymbeline.
Bearing His cross, while Christ passed forth forlorn,
His God-like forehead by the mock crown torn,
A little bird took from that crown one thorn.
To soothe the dear Redeemer's throbbing head,
That bird did what she could; His blood, 'tis said.
Down dropping, dyed her tender bosom red.
Since then no wanton boy disturbs her nest;
Weasel nor wild cat will her young molest;
All sacred deem the bird of ruddy breast.
Hoskyns-Abrahall—The Redbreast. A Brecon
Legend. In English Lyrics.
On fair Britannia's isle, bright bird,
A legend strange is told of thee,—
'Tis said thy blithesome song was hushed
While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary,
Bowed 'neath the sins of all mankind;
And humbled to the very dust
By the vile cross, while viler men
Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just.
Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down
By our transgressions,—faint and weak.
Crushed by an angry Judge's frown,
And agonies no word can speak,—
"Twas then, dear bird, the legend says
That thou, from out His crown, didst tear
The thorns, to lighten the distress,
And ease the pain that he must bear, J
While pendant from thy tiny beak *
The gory points thy bosom pressed,
And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood ^
The^ober brownness of thy breast!
Since Which proud hour for thee and thine.
As an especial sign of grace
God pours like sacramental wine
Red signs of favor o'er thy race!
You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe
your arms, like a malcontent; to relish a lovesong, like a robin redbreast.
Two Oentlemen of Verona. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 16.
e
The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Man
His annual visit.
Thomson—The Seasons. Winter. L. 246.
Call for the robin-red-breast, and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
John Webster—The White Devil, or Vittoria
Corombona. A Dirge.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
Wordsworth—Poor Robin.
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Wordsworth—The Redbreast Chasing the
Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.
Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
Come, and my requiem sing,
Nor fail to be the harbinger
Of everlasting spring.
Wordsworth—To a Redbreast. In Sickness.
ROMANCE
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys.
| author = Byron
| work = To Romance.
Romances paint at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages:
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings.
There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
| author = Byron
| work = Don Juan. Canto III. St. 8.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Prelude to Tales of a Wayside
Inn. Pt. V. L. 130.
Romance is the poetry of literature.
Madame Necker.
Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
Wordsworth—A Narrow Girdle of Rough
Stones and Crags.
