Classic Poem

As fragrant essences from summer flowers,
Steal, on aërial pinions, to the sense,
So, on the viewless wing of rumour, sped
A word that set the aviary on flame.
“To-morrow comes the Prince,” it said, “to choose
A bird of gifts will grace the royal bower.”
O then began a fluttering and a fume—
A judging each of all! Pert airs and speech
Flew thick as moulted feathers. Little heads
Were tossed in lofty pride, or in disdain
Were turned aside. For each bird deemed his own
The merits that would charm. One only sang
To-day his daily song, nor joined the crowd
In envious exultation. To him spoke
Another of his kind. “Vain one, refrain
That everlasting pipe, fit for a cage
Behind some cotter's lattice, where thy gray
And thickset form may shun the cultured eye.
A word of warning, too—hide from the Prince.”
“Dear brother,” cried the gray, “be not annoyed;
Who sees your elegance of form, and depth
Of perfect colour, ne'er will notice me.”
The morrow came,—the Prince. Each bird essayed
To please the royal taste, and many a meed
Of praise was won and given—this for his hue;—
That for his elegance;—another for
His fascinating grace. Yet something lacked,
'Twas evident, and many an anxious glance
Betrayed the latent fear.
“Yon little bird
In quiet gray and green courts not my praise,
Yet should a singer be,” exclaimed the Prince,
As with a critical and searching eye
He scanned the small competitors for choice.
Obedient to his governor, the bird
Poured forth his song, oblivious of the crowd
Of vain and envious round him, in whose eyes
He stood contemptible. The Prince, entranced,
Broke forth at length: “Nor hue, nor elegance,
Nor fascination, can outvie the gift
Of genius. My choice is made.”
And to the great offence
Of one bright bird, at least, the humble gray
Became the royal treasure.