286 BRITISH AND EUROPEAN BIRDS, 



Have we no sense— no feeling — we 



With all the Animate of Earth, whom he 



Vainly attempts to govern ? — Narrow 



The thought, and futile the pretence, 



To limit to himself all sense ! 

 He may obtain some even from a Sparrow ! 



I here, might, en passant, complain 

 For youye Warblers in our train ; 

 For you, who morning, noon, and night, 

 The woods, the uplands, meads, delight. 

 For you, who oft in prison dwell, 



Depriv'd of social converse there, 

 Like lonely hermit in a cell, 



Perchance to please some lady fair ; — 

 To pick from off her lily hand 

 Some crumbs, or sing at her command. 

 But Scotia's Bard hath well in song 

 Proclaim'd aloud the heinous wrong.* 



* '* Be not the muse asham'd here to bemoan 

 Her brothers of the grove by tyrant man 

 Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage 

 From liberty confin'd and boundless air. 

 Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull, 

 Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost ; 

 Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes 

 Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech ; 

 O then ye friends of love and love-taught song, 

 Spare the soft tribes ; this barbarous art forbear . 

 If on your bosom innocence can win, 

 Music engage, or piety persuade." 



Thomson's Spring. 



