No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow:

Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower—

His bower-birds opportunely yield us yet

The lacking instance when at loss to get

A feathered parallel to what we find

The secret motor of some mighty mind

That worked such wonders—all for vanity!

Worked them to haply figure in the eye

Of intimates as first of—doers' kind?

Actors', that work in earnest sportively,