To the Robin

The ox is all as happy in his stall
As when he low'd i' the summer's yellow eve,
Browsing the king-cup slopes; but no reprieve
Is left for thee, save thy sweet madrigal,
Poor robin: and severer days will fall.
Bethink thee well of all yon frosted sward,
The orchard-path, so desolate and hard,
And meadow-runnels, with no voice at all!
Then feed with me, poor warbler, household bird,
And glad me with thy song so sadly timed,
And be on thankful ears thy lay conferr'd;
So, till her latest rhyme my muse hath rhymed,
Thy voice shall with a pleasant thrill be heard.
And with a poet's fear, when twigs are limed.