The Wren

In the twilight of the morning,
    Ere the infant Day was strong, 
To the Poet's little window
    Came a gush of joyous song; 
Here or there it seemed it was not,
    For it came from every where, 
Thrilling as if it were uttered
    By the circumambient air.

Though the Robin sang his matin
    On the budding walnut tree, 
And the many birds were quiring
    All around as glad as he, 
In the spirit entered only
    That diviner burst of praise, 
As the earth, like charmed Memnon,
    Answered to the warming rays.

Needs must then the viewless spirit 
    Of the lingering breeze rejoice,
While, with more than siren [sic] sweetness, 
    Sang that universal voice;

Needs must he be still and wonder
    At the clear and joyous thrill; 
Uttered from the tongueless Silence
    Brooding over vale and hill.

Looking from his little window
    Saw the Bard a tiny Wren, 
On the low wall of the garden
    Sitting, where her nest had been; 
Then he knew the living fountain
    Of that gushing flood of song, 
And his spirit held him musing
    On the merry creature long.

Marveled he that one so humble,
    And so little ken'd as she, 
Yet could charm the ear of Morning,
    With so great a melody; 
While the Hawks and mighty Eagles —
    Lords and regents of the sky — 
Harsh and cruel and unlovely,
    Gave their terror-sending cry.

Marveled he that one so gifted 
    Loved the humbler paths of earth,
While the proud and stern were claiming 
    Nobler dowers and heavenlier birth; 
But there came a voice of wisdom, 
    Heard within the soul alone,
‘T was the Bard's attendant Genius 
    Speaking to her chosen son:

“Poet, in thy simple chamber,
    Least and humblest among men, 
Learn a high and truthful lesson
    Of the unambitious Wren. 
Know that greatness is not goodness,
    And the proud are not the pure; 
That the meekness of the gentle,
    Hath its boon of pleasure sure;

"That the lay which most delighteth,
    Is the music of the Heart, 
Uttered movingly and earnest,
    Fraught with life in every part; 
That the simple songs of Nature,
    Chanted in her tender strain, 
Stir the soul with sweet impulses
    To re-echo them again;

"And for greatness sigh no longer, 
    But with calm eye fixed above,
Sing and live thy glorious poem 
    In unstudied TRUTH and LOVE!"

Ceased the song and ceased the spirit, 
    But her words within were sown,
And a high and trustful being,
    From that precious seed hath grown.