ONE of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal, The blissful oriole.
So drunk, he disavows it
With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For 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 enchants Of an entire attar For his decamping wants.
The splendor of a Burmah, The meteor of birds, Departing like a pageant Of ballads and of bards.
I never thought that Jason sought For any golden fleece; But then I am a rural man, With thoughts that make for peace.
But if there were a Jason, Tradition suffer me Behold his lost emolument Upon the apple-tree.