  ROBIN. Good bye, good bye! I’m going away! I’ll come again next spring, clear! I scarce can find one leafy spray, On which to plume my wing, dear. ARAMINTA. Dear Robin, are you going south, To pass the coming season? This chill air don’t agree with you— You’re ill?—Is that the reason? Your doctor thinks you cannot stay With safety in this climate? Advises you to travel? hey? (That word—how shall I rhyme it?) ROBIN. I have no doctor. I’m as well As you are, Araminta; But I’ve relations at the south, With whom I pass the winter. We birds, that have no clothes or fire, Must fly this stormy weather; Good bye!—my friends are setting out; We always go together. ARAMINTA. Stay just a moment! Tell me how You’re going? Wings will weary; And there’s no steamboat in the sky; The way is long and dreary. ROBIN. There’s One above, who will not see A sparrow fall unheeded; He, ’Minta, will watch over me, And give me strength when needed. I’m going where the orange glows, Like gold, thro’ the emerald leaves, love; I’m going where its richest rose The laughing summer weaves, love. ARAMINTA. But tell me, Robin, how you’ll find The route you want to glide on; There are no sign-posts in the air, Not even a road to ride on! ROBIN. Ah, little one! I cannot err, With His true hand to guide me; His care is ever o’er my way, His helpful love beside me. |
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