 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
130
THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.
FIRST VERSION.
I
He thought he was a bard of equal powerWith others who aforetime twanged the strings,
Around whose brows the unfading bay-wreath clings,
Before whose feet the people incense shower;
Oh, he could sing! as in some summer bower
The nightingale an admiring audience brings,
So feels our young flushed poet as he flings
Aside his sonnets, flower after flower;
But winter came, reaction of his glow,
And took away the fervent pith and marrow
Of the heart that in the heat would overflow,
And he, the second singer trained at Harrow!—
In a looking-glass beheld himself, and lo,
The nightingale was nothing but a sparrow!
131
II
But Beauty came, and smiled, and he was glad,And well content to sweep a humble harp,
Bringing out at seasons some note strong and sharp,
The echo of some vision he had had,
The nightingale that had been mute and sad
Now burst into a sudden flame of song,
The bird that had been but a sparrow long
Abandoning his garment brown and bad;
For Poesy had said, “my child, the lyre
Gives out a gracious melody in your hands,
Be stalwart, be a singer, do not tire;
I have my nightingales in many lands,
But be an English thrush.” Who understands,
May take this double sonnet for his hire.
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