Classic Poem

The old Hercynian Forest sent
His weather on the plain;
Wahlwinkel's orchards writhed and bent
In whirls of wind and rain.
Within her nest, upon the roof,
For generations tempest-proof,
Wahlwinkel's stork with her young ones lay,
When the hand of the hurricane tore away
The house and the home thaTheld them.

The storm passed by; the happy trees
Stood up, and kissed the sun;
And from the birds new melodies
Came fluting one by one.
The stork, upon the paths below,
Went sadly pacing to and fro,
With dripping plumes and head depressed,
For she thought of the spoiled ancestral nest,
And the old, inherited honor.

" Behold her now! " the throstle sang
From out the linden tree;
" Who knows from what a line she sprang,
Beyond the unknown sea? "
" If she could sing, perchance her tale
Might move us, " chirruped the nightingale.
" Sing? She can only rattle and creak! "
Whistled the bullfinch, with silver beak,
Within the wires of his prison.

And all birds there, or loud or low,
Were one in scoff and scorn;
But still the stork paced to and fro,
As utterly forlorn.
Then suddenly, in turn of eye,
She saw a poet passing by,
And the thought in his brain was an arrow of fire,
That pierced her with passion, and pride, and ire,
And gave her a voice to answer.

She raised her head and shook her wings,
And faced the piping crowd.
" Best service, " said she, " never sings,
True honor is not loud.
My kindred carol not, nor boast;
Yet we are loved and welcomed most,
And our ancient race is dearest and first,
And the hand that hurts us is held accursed
In every home of Wahlwinkel!

" Beneath a sky forever fair,
And with a summer sod,
The land I come from smiles — and there
My brother was a god!
My nest upon a temple stands
And sees the shine of desert lands;
And the palm and the tamarisk cool my wings,
When the blazing beam of the noonday stings,
And I drink from the holy river!

" There I am sacred, even as here;
Yet dare I not be lost,
When meads are bright, hearts full of cheer,
At blithesome Pentecost.
Then from mine obelisk I depart,
Guided by something in my heart,
And sweep in a line over Libyan sands
To the blossoming olives of Grecian lands,
And rest on the Cretan Ida!

" Parnassus sees me as I sail;
I cross the Adrian brine;
The distant summits fade and fail,
Dalmatian, Apennine;
The Alpine snows beneath me gleam,
I see the yellow Danube stream;
But I hasten on till my spent wings fall
Where I bring a blessing to each and all,
And babes to the wives of Wahlwinkel! "

She drooped her head and spake no more;
The birds on either hand
Sang louder, lustier than before —
They could not understand.
Thus mused the stork, with snap of beak:
" Better be silent, than so speak!
Highest being can never be taught:
They have their voices, I my thought;
And they were never in Egypt! "