An owl took, in a barn, a station
As fittest for deep contemplation;
There (like a Turk) upon a beam
He sat, as Turks sit in hareem.
So smokers, at the Magpie met,
Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'
And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,
The future destinies of Europe.
The farmer comes to see his sheaves.
The owl his silent soul relieves;
"Reason in man is sheer pretence,
Would he - were he endowed with sense -
Treat owls with scorning? He can praise
The birds that twitter on the sprays:
Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,
Yet in the nobler owl he fails.
Should I, by daylight, view my reign,
Those birds would cluster in my train;
Why do they pounce upon the wing,
Save that they see and own their king?"
"Pshaw!" said the farmer: "lump of pride!
They only follow to deride;
Your scream affrights the evening hour,
When nightingales enchant the bower.
Why all on earth - man, beast, and fowl -
Know you for what you are - an owl.
You and your train! 'midst Nature's rules,
Fools in derision follow fools!"