The Mocking Bird - An 1849 Poem
By A.B. Meek.
- From the vale, what music ringing
- Fills the bosom of the night!
- On the sense, entranced, flinging
- Spells of witchery and delight!
- O'er magnolia, lime, and cedar,
- From yon locust-top, it swells.
- Like the chant of serenader,
- Or the rhymes of silver bells!
- Listen! dearest, listen to it!
- Sweeter sounds were never heard!
- 'Tis the song of that wild poet, —
- Mime and minstrel — Mocking Bird.
-
- See him swinging in his glory,
- On yon topmost bending limb
- Caroling his amorous story,
- Like some wild crusader's hymn!
- Now it faints in tones delicious
- As the first low vow of love!
- Now it bursts in swells capricious
- All the moonlit vail above!
- Listen! dearest, & c.
-
- Why is't thus, this sylvan Petrarch
- Pours all night his serenade?
- 'Tis for some proud woodland cause,
- His sad sonnets all are made!
- But he changes not his measure, —
- Gladness bubbling from his mouth, —
- Jest, and jibe, and mimic pleasure, —
- Winged Mercuita of the South!
- Listen! dearest, & c.
-
- Bird of music, wit and gladness!
- Troubadour of sunny clime!
- Disenchanter of all sadness!
- Would thine art were in my rhyme,
- O'er the heart that's beating by me.
- I would weave a spell divine!
- Is there ought she could deny me,
- Drinking in such strains as thine?
- Listen, dearest, listen to it!
- Sweeter sounds were never heard!
- Tis the song of that wild poet, —
- Mime and minstrel — Mocking Bird.
August 30, 1849. Ebensburg Mountain Sentinel 5(47): 4.