 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
132
THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.
SECOND VERSION.
I
He thought he was a bard who knew the waysOf Poesy, and swept the subtle strings,
As when upon a sudden somewhere sings
A nightingale, and all the hearers praise
The sweet bird hidden in the leafy sprays
And hush towards the harmony she brings,
When upward each a hand of waiting flings,
And halting half advanced each foot delays;
He thought he was a poet, he was great
In his own estimation, bone and marrow
Of genius, trained by cunning eye of fate,
The second mighty songster reared at Harrow,
When—in a looking-glass upon a gate
He saw himself perched, and behold, a sparrow!
133
II
Then he despaired—but gentle Beauty cameAnd laid a cooling palm upon his brow,
And said, ‘my singing bird, be certain now
I had not fanned thy passion to a flame
To bring thee unto poverty and shame,
Nor any who before my footstool bow;
He who would write heroic hymns I trow
Must be himself, as his most lofty aim;’
And then she held a glass before his eyes,
And in it, with a sudden choke and rush
Of feeling as when hopes achievèd flush
Some sufferer, with a shiver of surprise,
Himself again he seemed to recognise,
No nightingale, but a bright-breasted thrush.
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