Glory to the Sparrow that you see here Lifeless and blighted, Never more from his little bill Will you hear a sweet song. But in exchange, do not forget, You who look at him with ill-will, That if indeed death has dimmed His intelligent glance, Of his most powerful race There are millions in Spain! _The Company of Cazadores of the 7th Battalion._ Aqui reposa un Gorrion Que esta tarde se le entierra Y otros cien en pié de guerra La sirven de guarnicion, Bijiritas, en tropel Furiosas aleteais ¿Por ventura no observais Que estais ya mas muertas que el? Descansa en paz, oh gorrion, Y admite esta ofrenda fria De la cuarta compañia De este quinto batallon! TRANSLATION. Here rests a Sparrow, To be buried this afternoon, And a hundred more in warlike trim Serve him as a guard. You crowds of Bijiritas Who beat your wings with fury, Do you not by chance remark That you are already more dead than he is? Rest in peace, O sparrow! And accept this cold offering From the fourth company Of the fifth battalion. The gorrion was buried, and Havana left once more without other thought than that which had occupied Spaniards and Cubans for the several months previous. It is said that in former days ships which approached the tropic of Cancer, knew when they were nearing the shores of Cuba by the sweet odor of flowers and honey borne to them on the breeze; now, alas! the beautiful island is recognized from afar rather by the light of her burning plantations--by the smell of gunpowder and of blood! To all who have lived in Havana and who have friends among both parties; to all who know and appreciate the proud sense of honor and unshrinking courage of the one, and the quick intelligence and high aspirations of the other, the present struggle must and does give the deepest pain. But while they sympathize sincerely with those who sorrow, they believe that "behind a frowning providence God hides a smiling face," and that, the strife ended, Cuba will rise again from her ashes, purified and regenerated; for it is written that "they who sow in tears shall reap in joy"! THORNS. HOMAGE TO THE CROSS, GOOD-FRIDAY, 1870. Here his head rested, Crimsoned with blood; Jesus' hard slumber-place, Pillow of wood! Here his eye clouded; Dwell there, my gaze, Where the dear light of love Dyingly plays! Here the nails rankled; There the lance tore, While strove the water-tide Vainly with gore! Here the heart agonized, Hid from the glance; Pierced with ingratitude Worse than the lance! Here his soul parted-- Break not, my heart! Oh! what a deadly hurt, Sinning, thou art. Here the feet turn to thee; Press them, my lips! While a love-agony Through my heart creeps!