Classic Poem

The peacock sits perched on the roof all night,
And wakes up the farmhouse before 't is light;
But his matins they suit not the delicate ear
Of the drowsy damsels, that half in fear
And half in disgust his discord hear.

If the soul's migration from frame to frame
Be truth, tell me now whence the peacock's came?
Say if it had birth at the musical close
Of a dying hyena, — or if it arose
From a Puritan scold that sang psalms through her nose?

Well: a jackass there was — but you need not look
For this fable of mine in old Ã?sop's book —
That one complaint all his life had whined,
How Nature had been either blind on unkind
To give him an aspect so unrefined.

— 'T is cruel, — he groaned, — that I cannot escape
From the vile prison-house of this horrible shape:
So gentle a temper as mine to shut in
This figure uncouth and so shaggy a skin,
And then these long ears! — it 's a shame and a sin. —

Good-natured Jove his upbraidings heard,
And changed the vain quadruped into a bird,
And garnished his plumage with many a spot
Of ineffable hue, such as earth wears not, —
For he dipped him into the rainbow-pot.

So dainty he looked in his gold and green,
That the monarch presented the bird to his queen,
Who, taken with colors, — as most ladies are, —
Had him harnessed straight in her crystal car
Wherein she travels from star to star.

But soon as his thanks the poor dissonant thing
Began to bray when he strove to sing,
— Poor creature! — quoth Jove, — spite of all my pains
Your spirit shines out in your donkey strains!
Though plumed bright as Iris, the ass remains. —

So you see, love, that goodness is better than grace;
For the proverb fails in the peacock's case,
Which says that fine feathers make fine birds too;
This other old adage is far more true, —
They only are handsome that handsomely do.