From the Danish. Yonder the cuckoo flutters, Cuckoo, Cuckoo! he utters, And lights the beech upon; Many a voice is sweeter, But do not mock the creature, Let each enjoy his own. He knows no notes of passion, A new song cannot fashion; True to the ancient rule, What his good sires respected By him is not neglected,— Is he for that a fool? O thou, my human brother, Who scorning every other With self-conceit dost swell, We cannot all be gallants, Not equal are our talents— Thou art no nightingale! London: Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W. Edition limited to thirty copies. |
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