Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.