THE MOCKING-BIRD
Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul,
Now here, now there
In tree and air,
So free and fair?
Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole,
Inviting the heart to some sweet goal,
Like poet rare,
Beyond compare.
Hast thou a mind, a musical mind?
Who answers “nay”?
Or night or day,
Thy tuneful lay
Brings joy and grief; myself I find
In my inmost soul left far behind;
Yet I essay
The wondrous way.
“Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation;
Nor is that all
In thy charmed call;
I rise, though small,
To laud thy rhythmic re-creation,
Thy prompt and hearty liberation
Of life notes new which me enthrall,
Without man’s pride, and fall.
I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9]
Thy kindred sweet;
Palm Warbler meet
Thou dost repeat,
And modest, tawny Veery of the vale;
Thy music upward leads, and I inhale
Incense replete,
In thy retreat.
As in a dream I hear all tones combine
In Love’s embrace;
And there I see thy topmost place,
O Psyche of thy race!
Mocking-bird
By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”
Sketched originally for this volume.
Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine;
For this my soul must alway pine,
With upturned face,
For lyric grace.
Quintessence of event is thine and life;
What soul hath more
On sea or shore,
Now or afore?
Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife
With music, as no magic flute or fife—
Tis varied lore,
Forever more.
Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man,
Brave bird and bright;
Harmonic flight
Is thy delight.
Whenever was it thou did’st plan
Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can?
Without foresight
Thy runic rite.
Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour,
Produce thy chart,
Feel thrills of heart
Of thine, nor part
With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower,
Returning quick, possessing all thy power,
With no life mart
But music art;
Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken,
And glad bestow
Rich magic flow
On all below.
Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen?
But daring flight, until the poet pen
With thee shall glow
Like a sun-lit bow.
More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine,
As thou dost give,
As I love and live,
Is mine; thy nature is forever thine,
But by mutation mystic, yet benign,
As I with joy receive
Thy varied amative,
Is also mine,
In God’s own shrine.