XIII
The Oriole
One of the ones that Midas touched,Who failed to touch us all,Was that confiding prodigal,The blissful oriole.
So drunk, he disavows itWith badinage divine;So dazzling, we mistake himFor an alighting mine.
A pleader, a dissembler,An epicure, a thief,—Betimes an oratorio,An ecstasy in chief;
The Jesuit of orchards,He cheats as he enchantsOf an entire attarFor his decamping wants.
The splendor of a Burmah,The meteor of birds,Departing like a pageantOf ballads and of bards.
I never thought that Jason soughtFor any golden fleece;But then I am a rural man,With thoughts that make for peace.
But if there were a Jason,Tradition suffer meBehold his lost emolumentUpon the apple-tree.