POETRY.
A ROBIN IN GUERNSEY.
THERE where the paths through heath and lichened stone To sapphire waters bend,
Sat on a pointed rock, as on a throne, My sweet red-breasted friend.
A high and silent tide of lustre swept The valley, and scarce heard, Down to the shore the whispering streamlet crept.
While softly sang the bird.
Last lingerer of all the warbling host, It sang its song to me, Alone, upon that charmed and tranquil coast, Pressed its unworldly plea.
" Do not forget," it said, " the gentle things Of summer sea and air That soothed the heart with dreaming, and gave wings To life's supine despair : " The sky-blue channel's gleam, the balmy strength Of the foam-breathing breeze, The far isle lying its full purple length On Grecian-looking seas : " "The rippling diamonds in the bay that shook, The old house of romance, Whence Victor Hugo sent his lightning look Toward the shamed realm of France : " "The swing on sunny wave of sea-fowl fleet. Vistas of inland calm, The unfurled magnolias in the leafy street. Myrtles, and Guernsey palm : " " Brightness, and rest, and freedom from the din, That shine and settle here, Mornings of gold, do not forget these, in The yellow leaf and sere :" " In times that evil seem, and hard, and wrong, When the soul's lights delay,
JOSEPH TRUMAN..
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