  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!" |
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