The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if ’t was done
In earnest or in fun;
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.
The silliest grew vain,
To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird;
For of his wit they could not feel the force.
The charitable said,
“Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;
But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.”
The haughty said, “He thus,
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone.”
The wisest said, “If foe,
Or friend, we still may know
By him, wherein our greatest failing lies.
So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
[THE BIRD’S HOME.]
O where is thy home, sweet bird,
With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?
“I ’ll tell thee where I rest,
If thou wilt not rob my nest;—
I built among the sweet apple bloom.”
But what ’s in thy nest, bright bird?
What ’s there, in the snug, downy cell?
“If thou wilt not rob the tree;
Nor go too near, to see
My quiet little home, I will tell.”