176 THE HOUSE. SPARROW. 
What are his delicate fancies? Who e’er sees 
The Sparrow in his sensibilities? 
There are the nightingales, all soul and song, 
Moaning and warbling the green boughs among. 
There are the larks that on etherial wing, 
Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing; 
There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose 
lays, 
Inspired the minstrel songs of other days. 
There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo 
sweet ; 
Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet, 
Through spring and summer, and anon are flown 
To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown. 
Those are your poets ;—birds of genius—those 
That have their nerves and feel refined woes. 
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 
