Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

On a breezy knoll, neither hill nor plain,
But a chance-begotten child of the twain,
In a land of ridges and flats forlorn
Where none went by, save the wind in the corn,
Living the life that beseemeth age
A hermit had chosen his hermitage.

2.

Chosen, it may be, is hardly the word
For a place of abode by fate conferr'd.
But there he was, and he held his ground.
The spot was lone: and the traveller rarely
Paused, as he pass'd it, to gaze around
On the long low fields where the billowy barley
Waved and whiten'd under the wind;
Or the wolds above where the wandering sheep

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Slept and brouzed, and were sure to find
Nothing to do but to brouze and sleep.

3.

Yet, wherever she makes herself at home,
Thought fixes the centre of all creation.
And therefore this hermit, having become
A philosopher, had from his contemplation
Wrought for himself, as the years roll'd by,
A little philosophical system;
Which explain'd to his own satisfaction the why
And the how he was there; and so served to assist him
To accept and support with a heart heroic
His lot in life. Tho', for my part, I,
Not having in me the soul of a stoic,
Had that lot been mine should have surely sought
To exchange it for any less drear and lonely.
For, like the giants Don Quixote fought,
This sage was, in fact, but a windmill only.

4.

A windmill only? Monotonous hold
Of weary silence and chill neglect!
Yet a pilgrim tribe hath paid from of old
To this hermit homage of high respect.
For a little people there is, that lives
In the woods and fields, and is loved by all
For the songs it sings, and the joy it gives.
And this sweet folk, whose bodies are small

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But whose hearts are large, with religious awe
That weather-beaten windmill saw.

5.

The birds! their ways of living are known,
But who is it knows their ways of thinking?
'Tis true, and 'tis pity, 'tis true, I own,
But truth is truth and forbids all shrinking,
The birds, whatever themselves may call
Their flighty notions, are heathens quite.
Heathens, and not monotheists at all!
But this, tho' of course it is far from right,
Is yet a defect which they compensate
By adoring a number of gods so great
That perchance it comes in the end to the same,
And adoration suffers no loss.
They adore the sun for his friendly flame,
And the freshening shadow that cools the moss,
They adore the bushes, and banks, and brooks,
And the ruin'd towers we men abandon,
And even the low thatch'd eaves, whose nooks
Are as shrines for their household gods to stand on.

6.

What wonder, then, if a windmill be
A demigod to the birds? For who
But knoweth that four great wings hath he,
Whilst the biggest of birds hath only two?

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And a demigod may as well, I aver,
Be a demi-bird as a demi-man.
They deem'd him the bird of Jupiter,
And this tradition among them ran:
One summer morning Father Jove
Created the Windmill, wanting a fan
To cool his Palace Olympian;
And forbade the celestial bird to move
From the perch assign'd him by Jove's high will.
But, alas for the Windmill! he fell in love,
Madly in love with the Watermill:
Who then dwelt upon earth. And one dark night,
“Jove never will find me out,” thought he,
As earthward slyly he wing'd his flight
To visit the Watermill; where she,
Like a maiden demure, was sitting beside
Her spinning-wheel. Doth she mourn for him?
For he, having chosen (not to be spied)
A night when the Moon was wrapt up to the rim,
And, seeing her not as he pass'd on the sly,
Broke one of her horns with a flap of his wing.
The Moon to Jove complain'd, and thereby
All the gods got a gust of the thing,
And the Windmill was banish'd to earth, but still
Far away from the Watermill.
That is the reason he looks so sad.
And the Moon keeps turning her face in heaven,
To hide the scar which that night she had
From the Windmill's wing. He is unforgiven.

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7.

Now, albeit their legends admit variation
As to what the Windmill hath been or may be,
In the bird's universal estimation
Some sort of a half-bird-god is he.
And, if for naught else, they would still adore him,
Because of the grains of corn he strews,
For their sakes, over the threshold before him;
Where they hold high feast, when they get good news
Of the Miller's mystical visitations.
For is it not Hermes, the herald of Jove,
Bringing the Windmill his daily rations
Of ambrosia sent by the gods above?

PART II.

1.

One day, when the sacred feast was done,
And the others all flown, there remain'd behind
A certain Sparrow, the only one
Of the birds, be it said, whose habit of mind,
From haunting so much the haunts of men,
Hath taken a sceptical turn. And, when
He perceived that his fellows were gone, said he
To the Windmill, “Listen! It dupes not me,
Thy silence stern, nor thine aspect lonely.
I know thee. Thon art but a windmill only.

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Yet, altho' unduped, I applaud thy plan
For being a god. Nay, both will and can
Widely encourage the worship of thee,
But I first cry shares, and must have my due.
I am in the secret, as thou may'st see,
Prithee take me into the profit too.
By the profit I mean the sanctuary.
Thou hast in thy belly good store of grain.
A bargain's a bargain. Why be chary?
Come! let me in. It will be to thy gain.
I shall keep my counsel, and thine, be sure;
And behave as the priest who is up to the trick
Of the oracle bravely contrived to allure
His flock to the shrine, where their offerings stick.
Moreover, the more grains I devour,
The fewer for thee to grind into flour.”

2.

“Grains, and flour!” the Windmill cried,
“What would'st thou, poor little scavenger?”
But “Marry come up!” the Sparrow replied,
“No bad names, if you please, old sir!
You are but a windmill. That we know.”

3.

The Windmill mutter'd, “I care not how
Nor what I appear to thy bounded ken.
If thy foolishly-twittering folk suppose
That I, too, am a sort of a bird, what then?

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Innocent ornithomorphism! Those
Small souls can soar thro' the realm of infinity
To no loftier thought: tho' a mystic sense,
Guessing in me some part of divinity,
Gives them a glimpse of the truth immense.
Men, that are made of a coarser kind,
Careless concerning the causes of things,
In the simple effects of them seek but to find
Their own advantage, and use my wings
For the sake of the grain which I grant they grind;
Then pick up, and prize as precious stuff,
The dust which the voyager, voyaging
To a goal sublime, in his haste shakes off
From the sole of his foot. But this flour, this thing
That you prattle about, I regard with disdain.”

4.

Said the Sparrow, flapping a saucy wing,
“What are you there for, if not to grind grain?”

5.

The Windmill sullenly groan'd, “Go to!
Know'st thou the Wind?” “I should think I do!
Who knows not the Wind?” said the bird. “The Wind,
That terrible traveller, hungry and blind,
Whose joy is to ravage and overthrow
Whatever is lofty and great! I know
That he pass'd erewhile o'er mine own house-roof,
Thatch'd so thick I had thought it proof

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To the wildest weathers that worry the sky,
Yet he shatter'd it all as he pass'd by.
And I know not yet if I now shall find
The means to rebuild” . . .

6.

“Whence cometh the Wind?”
Interrupted the Windmill, stern.
“How should I know?” said the Sparrow. “Turn
And look out for thyself when he comes thy way.
And I care not, I, if at home he'd stay,
And not turn other folks out of their home.”

7.

Said the Windmill “Learn whence the Wind doth come!
The Wind, whose sublime and beneficent nature
Thou fearest, foolish and feeble creature,
Is the brave benefactor of earth and sky.
But who is it giveth him motion? I.
And the Wind, at whose whisper the anchor'd ship
Thrills like a bride to her bridegroom's lip,
Were it not for me would, in slothful sleep,
Leave not the lap of the languid deep.
But a single stroke of my sturdy wing
Startles him out of his slumbering.
A second speeds him away through space,
And, fearing a third, he hurries apace

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Over earth and thro' heaven, headlong hurl'd
By the strength made mine for the good of the world.”

8.

The Sparrow could scarce believe his ears.
After a silence long and perplext
“Friend,” quoth he, “since it now appears
From all you say (and who knows what next
You will bid us believe, audacious prophet,)
That the wind is waked by your mighty will,
Give me, prithee, a specimen of it.
See! not a grass-blade dips on the hill,
Nor a leaf on the lone thorn trees above it.
The time is propitious. Lift but an arm,
Or wave but a wing, and the wild wind charm.”

9.

“The moment is not yet come,” unstirr'd
The other replied, and undisconcerted.
“And when will it come?” said the sceptic bird.
“I know not when. It can not be averted.
Nor yet commanded,” the Windmill averr'd.
“When the inner voice I hear in me,
Prompt obedience I render to it.
But I cannot provoke it. The voice is free
As the inspiration of seer or poet.
Thro' all my being, I know not how,
But I feel the mystic impulse run

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Which mingles my life (this much I know)
With the life of the mighty world. The sun,
The moon, and stars, and the lands and seas,—
In all, doth the Spirit of Nature lurk.
And I, whose soul is made one with these,
By that Spirit am waked for my wondrous work.
He liveth in all, and he liveth in me,
That unseen Spirit: and only he
Knoweth the secret, and giveth the word.
But a moment comes when my limbs are stirr'd
By a signal they can alone divine.
The voice is his, and the vision mine.
Then all my being dilates, expands.
With a shudder of joy I stretch my hands,
And spread my wings. And my calm is gone.
A passion, a frenzy, a rapture rare,
Fills me with force for the work to be done.
With the strength of a giant I beat the air;
And forthwith ever I hear the Wind
That whistles, and shouts, and leaps behind,
Striving to mount on my mighty wings,
And drag me down. But fresh effort brings
Fresh strength; till I feel, in the final rest
By that effort bequeathed to my blissful breast,
The placid and gracious certitude
That I have fulfill'd my destin'd part
In the work of the wondrous world; subdued
My noble foe with a valorous heart;
And, in unison with the whole creation,
May again subside into contemplation.”

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10.

That Windmill might have been talking still;
But, far on the dip of a distant hill,
Over its dim blue woodlands roll'd
A watery cloud; and the east wind cold
Streak'd the barley, blown by his breath,
With streaming shadow. Fresh inspiration
To work—for the sake of bread and mankind,—
Obeying necessity's invitation
Forced the windmill to grind and grind.
He may have o'ervalued his work and vocation,
But philosophy often ends only in wind.