To the Mocking Bird

Bird of the wild and wondrous song,
I hear thy rich and varied voice
Swelling the greenwood depths among,
Till hill and vale the while rejoice.
Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain,
I list to that inspiring strain;
I thread the forest's tangled maze
The thousand choristers to see,
Who, mingled thus, their voices raise
In that delicious minstrelsy;
I search in vain each pause between —
The choral band is still unseen.

'T is but the music of a dream,
An airy sound that mocks the ear;
But hark again! the eagle's scream —
It rose and fell, distinct and clear!
And list! in yonder hawthorn bush,
The red-bird, robin, and the thrush!
Lost in amaze I look around,
Nor thrush nor eagle there behold:
But still that rich aerial sound,
Like some forgotten song of old
That o'er the heart has held control,
Falls sweetly on the ravished soul.

And yet the woods are vocal still,
The air is musical with song;
O'er the near stream, above the hill,
The wildering notes are borne along;
But whence that gush of rare delight?
And what art thou, or bird, or sprite'? —
Perched on yon maple's topmost bough,
With glancing wings and restless feet,
Bird of untiring throat, art thou
Sole songster in this concert sweet!
So perfect, full, and rich, each part,
It mocks the highest reach of art.

Once more, once more, that thrilling strain !-
Ill-omened owl, be mute, be mute! —
Thy native tones I hear again,
More sweet than harp or lover's lute;
Compared with thy impassioned tale,
How cold, how tame the nightingale.
Alas! capricious in thy power,
Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled:
The mimic rules the changeful hour,
And all the "soul of song" is dead!
But no — to every borrowed tone
He lends a sweetness all his own!

On glittering wing, erect and bright,
With arrowy speed be darts aloft,
As though his soul had ta'en its flight,
In that last strain, so sad and soft,
And he would call it back to life,
To mingle in the mimic strife!
And ever, to each fitful lay,
His frame in restless motion wheels,
As though he would indeed essay
To act the ecstacy he feels —
As though his very feet kept time
To that inimitable chime!

And ever, as the rising moon
Climbs with full orb the trees above,
He sings his most enchanting tune,
While echo wakes through all the grove;
His descant soothes, in care's despite,
The weary watches of the night;
The sleeper from his couch starts up,
To listen to that lay forlorn;
And he who quaffs the midnight cup
Looks out to see the purple morn!
Oh, ever in the merry spring,
Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing!