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.
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