Nature's Lesson

Grave Wisdom veils her thoughtful face
     Under the mask of humble lives, 
And oft, in many a secret place, 
     Bee-like, her stores of honey hives.

A Bird sang to me in the hedge;
     My childish thought said, “Prithee, rise 
How fair must be the plumes that fledge 
     Thy breast, O sire of melodies!" 
An earthy-dull, brown-bosomed thing
     Sprang outward from the parted boughs, 
And with his brooding mate took wing,
     Scared from their deftly-woven house.

"Beautiful home!" the like thought said,
     “What Indian swan the lily down 
Of her imperial breast hath shed,
     This cunning cradle-woof to crown?"
Alack! that rooted porcupine— 
     The stinging thistle at my knees —
Answered the childish thought of mine 
     With wing'd seeds floating on the breeze.

A bubbling Rill sang me athirst
     With temptings of its gurgled tune:
I drank where mimic torrents burst, 
     Ice-cool, to bathe the laughing June.
"Ha, tiny rill! thou crystal thread
     From Beauty's distaff flown by chance,
I'll see thee in her home," I said,
     "Out from her twining fingers dance."

Ah me! the dank and briery marsh 
     Devoured my dream'd Arcadian grot;
Pool-sodden leaves and brambles harsh
     Retaught the lesson twice forgot, 
That gifts are shared in nature's plan;
     All good is not the dower of one, 
And God creates no perfect man,
     No pall-less sweet, nor spotless sun;
That nothing good or fair of earth 
     Is rounded without flaw or dint, 
And nought of base, ignoble birth 
     But hath some touch of beauty in't.

It were enough for us to know
     That this we have and are is good,
Nor seek if its clear waters flow
     From noisome fen or odorous wood.
Thou shalt not ask ?????????     
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That Bird was true philosopher
     Who lined her warmly sheltering nest
With seed-down from the thistle-burr
     Soft as her own maternal breast.
Nor less the joy her fledglings knew
     In plumes the angry thistle gave.
Than if in regal down that grew
     On cygnets of the Ganges’ wave,
And he who sang as blithely there,
     Love-watching, from his russet throat,
As though his plumes flashed on the air
     Some hue for every twittering note,
Might shame the weak pretence of pride
     Whom gilded shows to fame uplift,
And teach the humblest to abide
     Serenely by his own true gift.