"_--the music of the moon
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale._"
Aylmer's Field.
Five geese,--a 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 Staël 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
Discern 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.