Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know Your heart is far away, Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow, And the roses bloom alway! For your cradle-nest was softly made In the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade; And you heard the chant of the southern seas Borne inland by the favoring breeze.
But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird! Should I bear you back again, Never would song of yours be heard Echoing through the glen. For once, ah! once at the dawn of day, You waked to the roar of the deadly fray, When the terrible clash of armèd foes Startled the vale from its dim repose.
At first you sat on a swaying bough, Mocking the bugle’s blare, Fearless and free in the fervid glow Of the heated, sulphurous air. Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note, With a martial ring in its upward float, And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be Cheering them on to victory!
But at length, as the awful day wore on, You flew to a tree-top high, And sat like a spectre grim and wan, Outlined against the sky; Sat silently watching the fiery fray Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray Lay together, a silent band, Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.
Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there Under the ivy-vine, You still remember the bugle’s blare, And the blood poured forth like wine. The soul of song in your gentle breast Died in that hour of fierce unrest, When like a spectre grim and wan, You watched to see how the strife went on.
COMING HOME
When the winter winds were loud, And Earth wore a snowy shroud, Oft our darling wrote to us, And the words ran ever thus— “I am coming in the spring! With the mayflower’s blossoming, With the young leaves on the tree, O my dear ones, look for me!”
And she came. One dreary day, When the skies were dull and gray, Softly through the open door Our belovèd came once more. Came with folded hands that lay Very quietly alway— Came with heavy-lidded eyes, Lifted not in glad surprise.
Not a single word she spoke; Laugh nor sigh her silence broke As across the quiet room, Darkening in the twilight gloom, On she passed in stillest guise, Calm as saint in Paradise, To the spot where—woe betide!— Four years since she stood a bride.
Then, you think, we sprang to greet her— Sprang with outstretched hands, to meet her; Clasped her in our arms once more, As in happy days of yore; Poured warm kisses on her cheek, Passive lips and forehead meek, Till the barrier melted down That had thus between us grown.