The Gray Linnet

There's a little gray friar in yonder green bush, Clothed in

sackcloth--a little gray friar, Like the druid of old in his

temple--but hush! He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.

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

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-- For behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out

From a bunch of green leaves at his side.