TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.
Arch imitator! ’mid thy varied tone,
That revels so acquisitively sweet,
Rivalling e’en Nature’s self, when doth thine own
Wild native air my rapt delusion greet?
Hast thou a voice to echo every note
Of liquid melody that erst hath dwelt
’Mid the greenwood, or where soft zephyrs float:
Yet of thine own hath not, in ecstacy to melt?