And sure there's in a friendly word
An accent even _thou_ shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach,
Disdaineth all peculiar speech.

'Tis common to the bird, and brute,
To fallen man, to angel bright,
And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute
Heard in the air at night--
Divine and universal toungue,
Whether by bird or spirit sung!

But hark! is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat,--
Faint--short--but weak, and very clear,
And like a little grateful note?
Another? ha--look where it lies,
It shivers--gasps--is still,--it dies!

'Tis dead,--'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,
Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain:--the singer's heart is cold,
Its eye is dim,--its fortune told!


A versification of a story in Mrs. Barbauld's "Evenings at home," by
Sneyd Edgeworth, Esq. deserves favourable mention; even the names will
tempt the reader.