Suggested By A Picture Of The Bird Of Paradise

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim The daring thought, forget the name; This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they Through India's spicy regions wing their way, Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee, Of all thy feathered progeny Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? So richly decked in variegated down, Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown, Tints softly with each other blended, Hues doubtfully begun and ended; Or intershooting, and to sight Lost and recovered, as the rays of light Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there? Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life Began the pencil's strife, O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare.      A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew A juster judgment from a calmer view; And, with a spirit freed from discontent, Thankfully took an effort that was meant Not with God's bounty, Nature's love to vie, Or made with hope to please that inward eye Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, But to recall the truth by some faint trace Of power ethereal and celestial grace, That in the living Creature find on earth a place.