Nature, in her chainless will,
Did not fetter thee, but free thee—
Pour thy hymns of rapture still!
Plumed in pomp, and pride prodigious,
Lo! the gaudy peacock rears;
But his grating voice so hideous,
Shocks the soul and grates the ears.
Finches may be trained to follow
Notes which dexterous arts combine;
But those notes sound vain and hollow