To a Captive Owl

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.