- Bird of the wild and wond'rous song!
- I hear they rich and varied voice,
- Swelling the greenwood depths among
- Till gloom and silence pleased rejoice!
- Spell bound, entranced in rapture's chain
- We list to that inspiring strain!
- We tread the forest's tangled maze,
- The thousand choristers to see,
- Who mingled thus their voices raise,
- In that ecstatic minstrelsy!
- We search in vain each pause between,
- The choral band is still unseen.
- 'Tis but the music of a dream,
- Such as doth oft our slumbers cheer;
- But hark again! the eagle's scream!
- It rose and fell distinct and clear!
- And list, in yonder hawthorn bush,
- The red bird, robin, and the thrush!
- Lost in amaze we look around,
- Nor thrush nor eagle there behold!
- But still that rich aerial sound,
- Like some forgotten song of old,
- That o'er the heart hath held control,
- Falls sweetly on the ravish'd soul.
- And yet the woods are vocal still,
- The air is redolent with song --
- Up the hill side, above the rill,
- The wild'ring sounds are borne along!
- But where, ye viewless minstrels! where
- Dwell ye? on earth or upper air?
- High on a solitary bough,
- With glancing wings and restless feet,
- Bird of untiring throat are thou,
- Sole songster in this concert sweet!
- So perfect, full and rich, each part,
- It mocks the highest reach of art.
- Once more, one more, that thrilling strain!
- I'll-omened owl, be mute, be mute!
- Thy native notes I hear again!
- More sweet than harp or lover's lute!
- Compared with thy impassioned tale,
- How cold, how tame, the nightingale!
- Alas! capricious is thy power,
- Thy 'wood-note wild' again is fled;
- The mimic rules, the changeful hour,
- And all the 'soul of song' is dead!
- But no! to every borrow'd tone,
- He lends a sweetness all his own.
- On glittering wing erect and bright,
- With arrowy speed he darts aloft,
- As though his soul had ta'en its flight,
- In that last strain so sad and soft.
- And he would call it back to life,
- To mingle in the mimic strife.
- And aye to every fitful lay,
- His frame in restless motion wheels,
- As though he would indeed essay,
- To set the ecstasy he feels;
- As though his very feet kept time,
- To that inimitable chime.
- And ever, as the rising moon
- Lifts her bright orb the trees above,
- he chants his most melodious tune
- While echo wakes through all the grove,
- Perch'd on the topmost bough he sings,
- Till all the forest loudly rings!
- The sleeper from his couch starts up
- To listen to that lay forlorn,
- And he who quaffs the midnight cup,
- Looks out to see the purpling morn.
- O! ever in the merry spring,
- Sweet mimic let me hear thee sing!
History and Legacy of Wild Birds Including Historic Ornithology and Other Topics of Interest
06 November 2013
To the Mocking Bird - An 1828 Poem
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poetry