A Belated Oriole

Gay little songster of the Spring,
This is an evil hour,
For one so light of heart and win
To face the storms that lower.

December winds blow on the lea
A chill that threatens harm,
With not a leaf on bush or tree
To shield thee from the storm.

Why hast thou lingered here so late
To face the storms that rise,
When all thy kind, and yellow mate,
Have sought for southern skies?

Hast thou, like me, some fortune ill
To bind thee to this spot?
Made to endure, against thy will,
A melancholy lot?

Chill is the air with windy sighs,
A prophecy that blows,
Of cold and inhospitable skies,
Of bitter frost and snows.

But there is One whose power it is
To temper blast and storm,
And love to give a bird is His,
And keep it safe from harm.

To Him thy helplessness will plead,
To Him I lift a prayer,
For we alike have common need
Of His great love and care.