A FABLE.

Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,

A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,

One day all meet together

To hold a caucus and settle the fate

Of a certain bird ( without a mate ),

A bird of another feather.

“My friends,” said the Owl, with a look most wise,

“The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,

In a way that is quite improper;

Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,

And I think her actions have grown so bold

That some of us ought to stop her.”

“I have heard it said,” quoth Hawk, with a sigh,

“That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,

And I wholly scorn and despise her.

This, and more, I am told they say,

And I think that the only proper way

Is never to recognize her.”

“I am quite convinced,” said Crow, with a caw,

“That the Eagle minds no moral law,

She's a most unruly creature.”

“She's an ugly thing,” piped Canary Bird;

“Some call her handsome — it's so absurd —

She has n't a decent feature.”

Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,

She said she was sure — she had n't a doubt —

Of the truth of each bird's story:

And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,

To pull her down from her lofty height,

And take the gilt from her glory.

But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand

That looks out over the smiling land

And over the mighty ocean,

The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings —

She rises, rises, and upward swings,

With a slow, majestic motion.

Up in the blue of God's own skies,

With a cry of rapture, away she flies,

Close to the Great Eternal:

She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;

Her soul is filled with the infinite

And the joy of things supernal.

Thus rise forever the chosen of God,

The genius-crowned or the power-shod,

Over the dust-world sailing;

And back, like splinters blown by the winds,

Must fall the missiles of silly minds,

Useless and unavailing.