' -- the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.' -- AYLMER'S FIELD. FIVE geese, -- landscape damp and wild, -- A stunted, not too pretty, child, Beneath a battered gingham; Such things, to say the least, require A Muse of more-than-average Fire Effectively to sing 'em. And yet -- Why should they? Souls of mark Have sprung from such; -- e'en Joan of Arc Had scarce a grander duty; Not always ('tis a maxim trite) From righteous sources comes the right, -- From beautiful, the beauty. Who shall decide where seed is sown? Maybe some priceless germ was blown To this unwholesome marish; (And what must grow will still increase, Though cackled round by half the geese And ganders in the parish.) Maybe this homely face may hide A Stael before whose mannish pride Our frailer sex shall tremble; Perchance this audience anserine May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!) -- May hiss -- a future Kemble! Or say the gingham shadows o'er An undeveloped Hannah More! -- A latent Mrs. Trimmer!! Who shall affirm it? -- who deny? -- Since of the truth nor you nor I Can catch the faintest glimmer? So then -- Caps off, my Masters all; Reserve your final word, -- recall Your all-too-hasty strictures; Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees Undreamed potentialities In most unhopeful pictures. |