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BARRY CORNWALL.

SE

OUCH not the little Sparrow, who doth build
His home so near us.

He doth follow us
From spot to spot amidst the turbulent town,

And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds
The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields,
And nature in her aspect mute and fair ;
But he doth herd with man. Blithe servant! live,
Feed, and grow cheerful! On my window's ledge
I'll leave thee every morning some fit food,
In payment of thy service.-Doth he serve?-

—-
Ay, serves and teaches. His familiar voice,
His look of love, his sure fidelity,
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
With what nice care he builds his nest, and guards
His offspring from all harm, and how he goes,
A persevering, bold adventurer,
'Midst hostile tribes, twenty times big as he,
Skill, perseverance, courage, parent's love,-

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In all these acts we see,

and
may

do well
In our own lives, perhaps, when need doth ask,
To imitate the little household bird.
Untiring follower! what doth chain thee here!
What bonds 'tween thee and man! Thy food the same
As their’s who wing the woods,—thy voice as wild,
Thy wants, thy power, the same ; we nothing do
To serve thee, and few love thee; yet thou hang'st
About our dwellings, like some humble friend,
Whom custom and kind thoughts do link to us,
And no neglect can banish.

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 Pity doth temper wisdom.

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HOWITT.

FELLOW feeling makes us wondrous

kind," So sang the noble bard, who, likethe swallow, Flew through far climes and soared where

few can follow. 'Tis true ; and therefore still we find That gentle spirits love the robin, That comes, as Wordsworth

says,

« when winds are sobbing;” 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,
You find that his ubiquity
Extends itself far up into antiquity.
Yes, through all countries and all ages
While other birds have

in woods or cages,
This noisy, impudent and shameless varlet
Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet,
Would have the highest place without the asking.
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking-
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting,
Flying and Auttering up and down
From peep of day to evening brown.
You may be sleeping, sick, or writing,
And needing silence—there's the Sparrow,
Just at your window—and enough to harrow
The soul of Job in its severest season.
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason
But to confound you,-he has got
Up in the leaden gutter burning hot :
Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan,
Loons of all ages,-grandsire, boy and man,
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold,
All met to wrangle, raffle, rant and scold.
Send out your man! shoot ! blow to powder
The villanous company, that fiercer, louder,
Drive you distracted. There ! bang! goes the gun, ,
And all the little lads are on the run
To see the slaughter ;-not a bird is slain-
There were some feathers Aew-a leg was broke,

sung

But all went off as if it were a joke-
In comes your man-and there they are again!

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But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more
Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door!
They love your cherry-tree-your rows of peas,
Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease !
You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woods-
No-he's not fond of hungry solitudes.
He better loves the meanest hamlet—where
Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there,
Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share.
The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings
In running brooks and purest forest-springs.
The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dust-
That is his washing, or his proper rust.

Before your carriage as you drive to town, To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch, Up to that point he will not move or Ainch ;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.

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At home he plagues the martins with his noise-
They build, he takes possession and enjoys;
Or if he want it not, he takes it still,

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