THE MOCKING-BIRD.
O, naught to me the nightingale,
Save as its exquisite harmony
Sings from Keats’ incomparable ode,
A hint—a dream-dipped memory.
But thou, sweet Mock-bird, art my own—
My very own.
And every tender, tinted tone
A-tilt from out thy tune-tipped throat,
To weave faint melodies, afloat,
Or trail low, liquid lengths of song
The dawn along—
Into the roseate, fresh-waked morn—
This song, dew-drenched and lilting borne,
This song, that timid as a dove,
Creeps in my heart—this song I love.
How does my soul of song within me burn
For speech to stay the falt’ring, lute-like turn
That trips the silence of the silver moon
Into a halting, dreamy, lingering tune;
For words to catch thy glorious roundelay
And coin the music of thy ecstasy.
Clear, crystal-beaded melodies, unstrung—
Long threaded pearls of song, triumphant flung—
Song-storms, symphonic, silvered, sifting showers,—
And through it all, the breathing orange flowers—
... O, let me softly sink to sleep
’Neath Southern skies where all the senses steep
In languorous joys. Let pure, soft, balmy air
Trail soothing fingers o’er my brow and hair.
And let the rustle of the pine and palm
Sway rhythmic measure to the peaceful calm—
While floats the perfume of the orange bloom
In all its richness through my moonlit room.
Then, when I join the twilight, slumber throng,
Come thou, sweet Mock-Bird, fill my dreams with song!
—Mary H. Flanner.
FREDERICK WARDE,
the eminent Shakespearian tragedian, who leaves the stage, laurel-crowned, to take up the higher work of the platform.