A Card of Invitation to Mr. Gibbon, at Brighthelmstone

AN English Sparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,
Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more respect than fear,
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his shed of straw.
Tho' he is but a twittering Sparrow,
The fields he hops in rather narrow,
When nobler plumes attract his view
He ever pays them homage due,
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whose talons bear the thunder;
Nor could the Jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the Eagle,
Tho', issuing from those holy tow'rs
In which they build their warmest bow'rs,
Their Sovereign's haunt they slily search,
In hopes to find him on his perch
(For PINDAR says, beside his God
The thunder-bearing Bird will nod)
Then, peeping round his still retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some molted feather he lets fall,
And swear he cannot fly at all.—
Lord of the Sky! whose pounce can tear
These croakers, that infest the air,
Trust him, the Sparrow loves to sing
The praise of thy imperial wing!
He thinks thou'lt deem him, on his word,
An honest, tho' familiar Bird;
And hopes thou soon wilt condescend
To look upon thy little friend;
That he may boast around his grove
A visit from the BIRD OF JOVE