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.