The bridges of fond hopes were swept away
     By great salt waves of sorrow.  In dismay
       I saw by the red lightning’s lurid glare
       That on the rock-bound island of despair
     I had been cast.  Till the dim dawn of day
       I heard my castles falling, and the roll
     Of angry billows bearing to the sea
       The broken timbers of my very soul. 
       Were all the pent-up waters from the whole
     Stupendous solar system to break free,
     There are no floods that now can frighten me.

     A FABLE.

     Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,
     A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,
       One day all meet together
     To hold a caucus and settle the fate
     Of a certain bird (without a mate),
       A bird of another feather.

     “My friends,” said the Owl, with a look most wise,
     “The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,
       In a way that is quite improper;
     Yet the world is praising her, so I’m told,
     And I think her actions have grown so bold
       That some of us ought to stop her.”

     “I have heard it said,” quoth Hawk, with a sigh,
     “That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,
       And I wholly scorn and despise her. 
     This, and more, I am told they say,
     And I think that the only proper way
       Is never to recognize her.”

     “I am quite convinced,” said Crow, with a caw,
     “That the Eagle minds no moral law,
       She’s a most unruly creature.” 
     “She’s an ugly thing,” piped Canary Bird;
     “Some call her handsome—­it’s so absurd—­
       She hasn’t a decent feature.”

     Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,
     She said she was sure—­she hadn’t a doubt—­
       Of the truth of each bird’s story: 
     And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,
     To pull her down from her lofty height,
       And take the gilt from her glory.

     But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand
     That looks out over the smiling land
       And over the mighty ocean,
     The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings—­
     She rises, rises, and upward swings,
       With a slow, majestic motion.

     Up in the blue of God’s own skies,
     With a cry of rapture, away she flies,
       Close to the Great Eternal: 
     She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;
     Her soul is filled with the infinite
       And the joy of things supernal.

     Thus rise forever the chosen of God,
     The genius-crowned or the power-shod,
       Over the dust-world sailing;
     And back, like splinters blown by the winds,
     Must fall the missiles of silly minds,
       Useless and unavailing.