C. J.

* * * * *

THE HUMBLE SPARROW’S ADDRESS TO T. S. A.

(For the Mirror.)

  My dearest Sir, how great a change
  Has pass’d upon the groves I range,
        Nay, all the face of nature! 
  A few weeks back, each pendent bough,
  The fields, the groves, the mountain’s brow,
  Were bare and leafless all, but now
        How verdant ev’ry feature!

  Each little songster strives to raise
  Its highest warbling notes of praise,
        For all these blessings given:—­
  Ere Sol emerges from behind
  The eastern hills, the lark we find
  Soars, as it were on wings of wind,
        With grateful notes to heaven.

  A thousand others catch the strains,
  Each bush and tree a tongue contains,
        That offers up its praises. 
  From morn till the meridian day,
  From noon till Sol has sunk away,
  One ceaseless song, one grateful lay,
        Each feather’d songster raises.

  And when Night’s grim and sable band,
  Spreads her dim curtains o’er the land,
        And all our prospect closes;
  Then Philomela, queen of song,
  The sweetest of the feather’d throng,
  Takes up the theme the whole night long,
        While nature all reposes.

  Then surely I, the humblest bird,
  That e’er among the groves was heard,
        Should aid the thankful chorus;
  With chirping note I’ll join the sound,
  For not a Sparrow, ’twill be found,
  Without HIS will falls to the ground,
        Who high above reigns o’er us.

  But what avail my feeble powers,
  When softer notes descend in showers,
        Mine are not worth regarding;
  No honour’d title gilds my name,
  No dulcet notes I e’er could claim;
  So worthless I, you may obtain
        Two Sparrows for a farthing.

  Besides, I ne’er was form’d to sing,
  And so must soar on humbler wing,
        Since nature saw it fitter;
  But yet my feeble powers I’ll try,
  And sound my chatt’ring notes on high,
  For I am sure you’ll not deny
        To hear my simple twitter.

  My gratitude is doubly due,
  For all the hedges[2] in my view,
        Afford a verdant cover;
  I now can build my nest once more,
  From childhood’s prying glance secure,
  And from the hawk’s keen eye, tho’ o’er
        The sacred bush he hover.

  Oh! had I Philomela’s tongue,
  The thrush’s note, or warbling song
        Of blackbird, lark, or linnet;
  I’d then more gratitude display,
  Striving to raise a sweeter lay,
  I’d sing the fleeting hours away,
        Nor silent be a minute.

  But I must quit the trembling spray,
  And to my duty fly away,
        To pick a straw or feather;
  My mate is somewhere on the wing,
  I think she’s gone some moss to bring,
  For we must work while it is spring,
        And build our nest together.