To the Mocking-Bird

Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes — and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs
Of vanish'd nations rolls thy music tide.
No light from history's starlike page illumes
The memory of those nations — they have died.
None cares for them but thou, and thou may st sing,
Perhaps, o'er me — as now thy song doth ring
Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.
Thou scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din,
Where one from others no existence weaves,
Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and grieves,
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:
And thou dost flee into the broad, green woods,
And with thy soul of music thou dost win
Their heart to harmony — no jar intrudes
Upon thy sounding melody. O, where,
Amid the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes?
Ha! what a burst was that! the Aeolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the lone woods — and now it comes again —
A multitudinous melody — like a rain
Of glossy music under echoing trees,
Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul
With a bright harmony of happiness —
Even as a gem is wrapt, when round it roll
Their waves of brilliant flame — till we become,
E'en with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb,
And pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal.
I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades,
Alone with nature — but it may not be;
I have to struggle with the tumbling sea
Of human life, until existence fades
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Through the thick woods and shadow-checker'd glades,
While naught of sorrow casts a dimness o'er
The brilliance of thy heart — but I must wear
As now, my garmenting of pain and care —
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.
Yet why complain? — What though fond hopes deferr'd
Have overshadow'd Youth's green paths with gloom!
Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard, —
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird,
To welcome me, within my humble home; —
There is an eye with love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume!
Then why complain? — When death shall cast his blight
Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest
Beneath these trees — and from thy swelling breast,
O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light.