When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air
With the splendour of tropical wings,
All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there
Flashes forth through his lay when he sings;
For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,
Though in such a plain garb he appears,
That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,
He steals in through the gates of your ears.
But the cheat!—'tis not heaven he's warbling about—
Other passions, less holy, betide—