BARRY CORNWALL. SE OUCH not the little Sparrow, who doth build Bids us be gentle with so small a friend; And much we learn from acts of gentleness. Doth he not teach ?—Ay, and doth serve us too, Who clears our homes from many a toilsome thing, Insect or reptile! and when we do mark His offspring from all harm, and how he goes, A persevering, bold adventurer, 'Midst hostile tribes, twenty times big as he, In all these acts we see, and may do well In our own lives, perhaps, when need doth ask, Untiring follower! what doth chain thee here! Thy wants, thy power, the same; we nothing do So, long live The household Sparrow! may he thrive for ever! For ever twitter forth his morning song, A brief, but sweet domestic melody! Long may he live! and he who aims to kill Our small companion, let him think how he Would feel, if great men spurn'd him from their hearths, Or tyrant doom'd him, who had done no wrong, To pains or sudden death. Then let him think, And he will spare this little trustful bird; And his one act of clemency will teach His heart a lesson that shall widen it, For nothing makes so bright the soul, as when པ HOWITT. FELLOW feeling makes us wondrous kind," So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, few can follow. 'Tis true; and therefore still we find That gentle spirits love the robin, bing;" "when winds are sob Pecks at your window; sits upon your spade, And often thanks you in a serenade. But what is it that brings about you That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow, Which seems to say-"I'd do as well without you," Yet, never for a second, Night or day, Will be away, Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned? In town or country-in the densest alley Of monstrous London-in the loneliest valley— On palace-roof-on cottage-thatch, On church or chapel-farm or shop, The Sparrow's still "the bird on the house-top." I think 'twas Solomon who said so, And in the bible having read so, Extends itself far up into antiquity. Yes, through all countries and all ages Flying and fluttering up and down You may be sleeping, sick, or writing, The soul of Job in its severest season. Up in the leaden gutter burning hot : the gun, There were some feathers flew-a leg was broke, But all went off as if it were a joke— In comes your man-and there they are again! But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more Before your carriage carriage as you drive to town, To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; Up to that point he will not move or flinch ; You think your horse will crush him—no such thing— That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing, Or take his head off in a twink-but he Knows better still, and liveth blithe and free. At home he plagues the martins with his noiseThey build, he takes possession and enjoys; Or if he want it not, he takes it still, |