398 THE HOUSE SPARROW. 



For man must oft his errors mourn, 



His soul more constant harrow 

 In dreaming of a future bliss 



That's present with the sparrow. 



I hushed them off ; away they flew 



Across my garden's border, 

 And 'lighted on a neighbouring tree, 



With hundreds of their order. 

 When such a chattering quickly rose — 



What could I from it borrow? 

 They chirped to see man's petty spite — 



The friends of that cock sparrow. 



But doubtful friends 'tis vain to please — 



More vain their idle gabble ; 

 They fret the mind the more we heed, 



And cause the more of trouble. 

 Then lee us walk with humble mind — 



Each motive sift most thorough, 

 And guard ourselves from prying friends 



Who chatter like the sparrow. 



Their own poet Longfellow, in his " Birds of Killingworth,' 



says : — 



" It was the season, when through all the land 



The merle and mavis build, and building sing ; 

 When on the boughs the purple buds expand 



The banners of the vanguard Spring. 

 The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud, 



Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; 

 The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 



Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ; 

 And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, 

 Clamoured their piteous prayer incessantly. 



Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 



In fabulous days, some hundred years ago : 

 And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 



Heard with alarm the cawing of thn crow, 

 That mingled with the universal mirth, 



Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 

 They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words 

 To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 



What ! slay them all ! and wherefore? for the gain 



Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

 Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 



Scratched up at random by industrious feet 

 Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 



Or a few cherries that are not so sweet 

 As are the songs these uninvited guests 

 Sing at their feasts with comfortable breasts. 



Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 



Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams, 

 As in an idiot's brain remembered words 



Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 



