Spake no more the hoary oak;
No response the wan moon spoke;
But the poet who had heard
Pondered the Dodonian word.
A DIAMOND.
UPON the breast of senseless earth
This precious sparkling stone,
A jewel of Golconda’s worth,
In sovran beauty shone.
My lady for a moment bore
The gem upon her brow,
A moment on her bosom wore:—
’Tis worth the Orient now.
MY CATBIRD.
A CAPRICCIO.
NIGHTINGALE I never heard,
Nor the skylark, poet’s bird;
But there is an æther-winger
So surpasses every singer,
(Though unknown to lyric fame,)
That at morning, or at nooning,
When I hear his pipe a-tuning,
Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,—
What are all their songs of birds worth?
All their soaring
Souls’ outpouring?
When my Mimus Carolinensis,
(That’s his Latin name,)
When my warbler wild commences
Song’s hilarious rhapsody,
Just to please himself and me!
Primo Cantante!
Scherzo! Andante!
Piano, pianissimo!
Presto, prestissimo!
Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine?
And now a miraculous gurgling gushes
Like nectar from Hebe’s Olympian bottle,
The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle!
Such melody must be a hermit-thrush’s!
But that other caroler, nearer,
Outrivaling rivalry with clearer
Sweetness incredibly fine!
Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird,
Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird?
All one, sir, both this bird and that bird,
The whole flight are all the same catbird!
The whole visible and invisible choir you see
On one lithe twig of yon green tree.
Flitting, feathery Blondel!
Listen to his rondel!
To his lay romantical!
To his sacred canticle!
Hear him lilting,
See him tilting
His saucy head and tail, and fluttering
While uttering
All the difficult operas under the sun
Just for fun;
Or in tipsy revelry,
Or at love devilry,
Or, disdaining his divine gift and art,
Like an inimitable poet
Who captivates the world’s heart
And don’t know it.
Hear him lilt!
See him tilt!
Then suddenly he stops,
Peers about, flirts, hops,
As if looking where he might gather up
The wasted ecstasy just spilt
From the quivering cup
Of his bliss overrun.
Then, as in mockery of all
The tuneful spells that e’er did fall
From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise,
He snarls, and mews, and flies.
THE TUNES DAN HARRISON USED TO PLAY.
OFTTIMES when recollections throng
Serenely back from childhood years,
Awaking thoughts that slumbered long,
Compelling smiles or starting tears,
The music of a violin
Seems through my window floating in,—
I think I hear from far away
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
Dan Harrison! I see him there
Beside the roaring winter hearth,
Fiddling away all mundane care,
His genial face aglow with mirth;
And when he laid his bow aside,
“Well done! well done!” he cheerly cried;
Well done, well done, indeed were they,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
I do not know what tunes he played,
I cannot name one melody;
His instrument was never made
In old Cremona, o’er the sea;
Yet from its chords his raptured skill
Drew magic strains my soul to thrill,
Some ah so mournful, some so gay,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.