THE SPARROW.

GLAD to see you, little bird,

'Twas your pretty chirp I heard :
What, did you intend to say,
"Give me something this cold day?"

That I will, and plenty, too;
All these crumbs I saved for you;
Don't be frightened-here's a treat;
I will wait and see you eat.

Frost and snow have made you bold;
I'll not hurt you, though I'm told
There are many reasons why
Every sparrow ought to die.

Thomas says you steal his wheat,
John complains his plums you eat—
Choose the ripest for your share,
Never asking whose they are.

Shocking tales I hear of you;
Chirp, and tell me, are they true?
Robbing all the summer long:
Don't you think it very wrong?

Yet you seem an honest bird;
Don't be vex'd at what I've heard:
Now, no grapes or plums you eat;
Now, you cannot steal the wheat.

So I will not try to know
What you did so long ago:
There's your breakfast, eat away,
Come and see me every day.

T

TO THE SNOWDROP.

PRETTY firstling of the year!
Herald of the host of flowers!
Hast thou left thy cavern drear,
In the hope of summer hours?
Back unto thy earthen bowers!
Back to thy warm world below,
Till the strength of suns and showers
Quell the now relentless snow!

Art still here, alive and blithe?

Though the stormy Night hath fled, And the frost hath passed his scythe O'er thy small, unshelter'd head! Ah !—some lie amidst the dead, (Many a giant, stubborn tree,— Many a plant, its spirit shed,) That were better nursed than thee!

What hath saved thee? Thou wast not

'Gainst the arrowy winter furred,— Armed in scale,- but all forgot

When the frozen winds were stirred. Nature, who doth clothe the bird, Should have hid thee in the earth,

Till the cuckoo's song was heard, And the Spring let loose her mirth.

Nature, deep and mystic word!

Mighty mother, still unknown! Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird With an armour all thine own! Thou, who sent'st it forth alone To the cold and sullen season,

(Like a thought at random thrown,) Sent it thus for some grave reason!

If 'twere but to pierce the mind

With a single gentle thought,
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind,
Who that thou hast vainly wrought?
Hoard the gentle virtue caught
From the snowdrop,-reader wise!
Good is good, wherever taught,

On the ground or in the skies! Barry Cornwall.

THE LITTLE BOY'S GOOD NIGHT.

THE sun is hidden from our sight,

The birds are sleeping sound; 'Tis time to say to all, "Good night!" And give a kiss all round.

Good night, my father, mother dear,

Now kiss your little son;

Good night! my friends, both far and near,
Good night to every one.

Good night! ye merry, merry birds,
Sleep well till morning light;
Perhaps if you could sing in words,

You would have said, "Good night!"

To all my pretty flowers, good night!
You blossom while I sleep;

And all the stars that shine so bright,
With you their watches keep.

The moon is lighting up the skies,

The stars are sparkling there;

"Tis time to shut our weary eyes,

And say our evening prayer.-Eliza Lee Follen.