HE ice-king has laid his cold hands on the rills,
They cannot now playfully leap down the hills; Snowy mountain and valley alike are made hoary,
Jack Frost reigns triumphant, alone in his glory.
One sees, now and then, a lonely snow-bird,
But dear robin redbreast no longer is heard
Warbling out a glad song to the praise of her Maker,
She has gone where the ice-king cannot overtake her.
Who guides the dear birds, that they never get lost
When seeking a home to escape from the frost?
Our Father in Heaven, He leads them aright,
Till away in the bright sunny South they alight.
So long as the lofty old hills shall remain,
And Spring shall renew their bright verdure again,
Our kind, loving Father shall still fondly care
For the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air.
Not a robin or sparrow can fall to the ground,
Not a raven may cry but He heareth the sound;
Then will not "our Father in heaven" be nigh,
And bless us, dear children, when we too shall cry?
Oh yes; are ye not of more value than they?
In accents most tender we hear Jesus say;
And surely, if God takes such care of a bird,
Our prayers, if sincere, cannot fail to be heard.
Hodson & Son, Printers, 22, Portugal Street, Incoln's Inn.