MIGRATION OF BIRDS. 73
" Will you go ? " asked the robin, " my only love ? " And a tender strain from the leafless grove Responded, " Wherever your lot is cast, 'Mid summer-skies, or the northern blast, I am still at your side, your heart to cheer ; Tho' dear is our nest in the thicket here."
��" I am ready to go," cried the querulous wren,
" From the hateful homes of these northern men ;
My throat is sore, and my feet are blue ;
I fear I have caught the consumption too."
And the oricle told, with a flashing eye,
How his plumage was spoil'd by this frosty sky.
Then up went the thrush with a trumpet-call, And the martins came forth from their box on the wall, And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower, And the swallows conven'd on the old church-tower, And the council of blackbirds was long and loud, Chattering and flying from tree to cloud.
" The dahlia is dead on her throne," said they ; " And we saw the butterfly cold as clay. Not a berry is found on the russet plains, Not a kernel of ripen 'd maize remains, Every worm is hid, shall we longer stay To be wasted with famine ? Away ! Away ! "
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