I should be dumb before thee, feathered sage! And gaze upon thy phiz with solemn awe, But for a most audacious wish to gauge The hoarded wisdom of thy learned craw.
Art thou, grave bird! so wondrous wise indeed? Speak freely, without fear of jest or gibe — What is thy moral and religious creed? And what the metaphysics of thy tribe?
A Poet, curious in birds and brutes, I do not question thee in idle play; What is thy station? What are thy pursuits? Doubtless thou hast thy pleasures — what are THEY?
Or is‘ t thy wont to muse and mouse at once, Entice thy prey with airs of meditation, And with the unvarying habits of a dunce, To dine in solemn depths of contemplation?
There may be much — the world at least says so — Behind that ponderous brow and thoughtful gaze; Yet such a great philosopher should know, It is by no means wise to think always.
And, Bird, despite thy meditative air, I hold thy stock of wit but paltry pelf — Thou show'st that same grave aspect everywhere, And wouldst look thoughtful, stuffed, upon a shelf.
I grieve to be so plain, renownëd Bird — Thy fame‘ s a flam, and thou an empty fowl; And what is more, upon a Poet's word I'd say as much, wert thou Minerva's owl.
So doff th’ imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base — And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face.
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