lines. The marvel will ever remain to the sympathetic student of nature, but I venture to hope that in the preceding chapters I have succeeded in lifting—if only by one of its corners—the veil of mystery which has for long shrouded this department of nature.
On a Peacock's Feather.
In Nature's workshop but a shaving,
Of her poem but a word,
But a tint brushed from her palette,
This feather of a bird!
Yet set it in the sun glance,
Display it in the shine,
Take graver's lens, explore it,
Note filament and line,
Mark amethyst to sapphire,
And sapphire to gold,
And gold to emerald changing
The archetype unfold!
Tone, tint, thread, tissue, texture,
Through every atom scan,
Conforming still, developing,
Obedient to plan.
This but to form a pattern
On the garment of a bird!
What then must be the poem,
This but its lightest word!
Sit before it; ponder o'er it,
'Twill thy mind advantage more,
Than a treatise, than a sermon,
Than a library of lore.
