Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,
And around us so wantonly float,
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies
From the silvery reel of his throat?
When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air
With the splendor 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,