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Oh censure not his choice, if, free from pride,
He takes the small and lays the vast aside,
Nature is Nature still, wherever seen,
In an owl's hooting^[1], or an ass's mien^[2].

1. The owls have hardly sung their last,
   While our four travellers homeward wend;
   The owls have hooted all night long,
   And with the owls began my song,
   And with the owls must end.
   Wordsworth's Lyr. Bal. fourth edit.
   vol. i, p. 128
   
   
2. Poor little foal, of an oppressed race!
   I love the languid patience of thy face,
   And oft, with gentle hand, I give thee bread,
   And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
   But what thy dulled spirits bath dismay'd,
   That never thou dost sport along the glade?
   •••••••••••••••
   Innocent foal! thou poor, despis'd forlorn,
   I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn.
   Poems by S. T. Coleridge—Piece entitled, "To
   a young Ass, its Mother being tethered near it."