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Birds-Robin: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The Redbreast loves to build and warble there, And light footsteps lightly print the ground.— GRAY — Elegy. Last St. (Early

Edition.) 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 Bréton Legend. In English Lyrics. The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer.— LOWELL — An Indian Summer Reverie. St. 6.

Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild To lie submissive under household hands With beating heart that no love understands And scared eye, like a child Who only knows that he is all alone And summer's gone.— D. M. MULOCK — Summer Gone. St. 2.

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 man 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, While pendant from thy tiny beak The gory points thy bosom pressed, And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood The sober 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!— DELLE W. NORTON — To the Robin

Redbreast. The robin redbreast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a martin's nest.— POPE — Second Book of Horace. Satire II. L. 37.

You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast.— Shakespeare — Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 16.

Whither away, Robin, Whither away? Is it through envy of the maple leaf, Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, Thou wilt not stay? The summer days now long, yet all too brief The happy season thou hast been our guest: Whither away? C.— E. C. STEDMAN — The Flight of the Birds.

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. Each morning, when my waking eyes first see, Through the wreathed lattice, golden day appear, There sits a robin on the old elm-tree, And with such stirring music fills my ear, I might forget that life had pain or fear, And feel again as I was wont to do, When hope was young, and life itself were new.— ANNA MARIA WELLS — The Old Elm

Tree. 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 Butterfly. 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! h. Robin.