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 hasn't a decent feature."              Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,              She said she was sure - she hadn'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.