A bird once came and said to me,
"Hear how the mountains came to be.
An angel from his crystal sphere
Fell to the earth. A chilly fear
Shot thro' his wings from tip to tip,
For there was neither boat nor ship,
Mountain nor stream, nor maid nor man,
Far as the angel's eye could scan;
Dead flatness far as he could see
Before the mountains came to be.
He stretched his wings to fly away,
But round his feet the oozy clay
Gripped fast, and held him to the ground.
He stretched and strove until a sound
Went thro' him from he knew not where
And said, 'The only way is prayer.'
He dropped his wings and raised his eyes,
And sent his soul into the skies.
He prayed and prayed, and as he prayed
A wind among his plumage played
And bore him upward toward his sphere.
Around his feet from far and near
There came a sound that seemed to say,
'Pray on! pray on! we too would pray.
Thy prayer has touched the sleeping Powers:
Pray on, thy prayer shall yet be ours;
We too have wings that pine for flight,
We too have eyes that long for light.'
Upward he moved, and still his eyes
Were fastened on the distant skies,
And as he rose toward heaven dim
He drew the earth up after him.
About his feet the oozy clay
Gripped fast, but could not stop or stay
His course, till on his skyey stair
He paused beyond the need for prayer,
While from the air beneath, around,
There rose a tumult of glad sound.
The angel turned the sound to seek,
And lo! his foot was on a peak
That fell away to where the world
Lay like a painted flag unfurled
And shaken out from sea to sea,—
And thus the mountains came to be."
So said the bird, and what the masque
Of meaning hid, I meant to ask;
But off he flew before I knew—
And yet I think the tale is true
If one could only hear aright,
And see with something more than sight. |