I have, somewhere, met with an old legend, that a robin, hovering about the Cross,
bore off a thorn, from our dear Saviour's crown; and dyed his bosom, with
the blood; and, that, from that time, robins have been the friends of man.
SWEET Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there, upon the day,
The Christ was crowned, in cruel scorn;
And bore away, one bleeding thorn:
That, so, the blush, upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow, was impressed;
And, thence, thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.
Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
Bathed, in my Saviour's blood, like thee;
Bear, in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the Cross;
Live, ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship, with human kind;
And take my pattern, still, from thee,
In gentleness, and constancy.
RIVERSIDE, Conversion of St. Paul, 1852.