The Ass and the Nightingale

An ass a nightingale espied,
And shouted out, “Holla! holla! good friend!
“Thou art a first-rate singer, they pretend:--
Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know--the world is partial ever--
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.”

The nightingale began her heavenly lays;
Through all the regions of sweet music ranging,
Varying her song a thousand different ways;
Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing:
Full of wild rapture now--then sinking oft
To almost silence--melancholy, soft
As distant shepherd’s pipe at evening’s close:--
Strewing the wood with lovelier music;--there
All nature seems to listen and repose:
No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:--
All other voices of the grove are still,
And the charm’d flocks lie down beside the rill.

The shepherd like a statue stands--afraid
His breathing may disturb the melody,
His finger pointing to the harmonious tree,
Seems to say, “Listen!” to his favourite maid.

The singer ended:--and our critic bow’d
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:--

“Now that’s so so;--thou really hast some merit;
Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it;
Thy voice wants sharpness:--but if Chanticleer
Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he
Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear;
And thou in spite of all thy faults mayst be
A very decent singer.”----
The poor bird
In silent modesty the critic heard,
And winged her peaceful flight into the air,
O’er many and many a field and forest fair.

There are too many such critics now-a-days.
Merciful heaven! protect us from their praise.