To a Mocking-Bird - An 1843 Poem

Florida, March 10, 1842. For the Tribune.

Bird, that sittest on the spray

Trilling to the fadeless leaf,

Sweetest music all the day,

Breathing not a note of grief.

Welcome! thou hast touched my heart,

Tears have gathered to my eye;

Messenger of Joy thou art,

I am glad when thou art nigh.

Whence are all thy silver tones,

Tinkling like a merry bell?

Which the heart responsive owns

Sweeter than the tongue may tell?

Stealing gently o'er the soul,

Giving mirth they cannot take,

As successive ripples roil

O'er the breeze-enchanted lake?

Sing! O, do not cease thy lay!

Swell again thy tiny throat!

Tones of loved ones far away,

Dwell in every warbled note!

Tones of loved ones — will they die?

Will they cease their song as thou?

Raise again thine anthem high,

From the old oak's mossy bough.

Thanks! thy song comes sweet and clear,

Softer, gladder than before;

Thou, upon the ravished ear,

Unmixed melody dost pour.

Telling of the upper skies —

Music mortals may not hear

Unto Him as thine shall rise,

Through the never-fading year!

June 6, 1843. New York Daily Tribune 3(50): 4.

Spring - April 1845

By Jesse E. Dow. Washington, April 7, 1845.

Sweetly the blue bird warbles spring

From orchard boughs where blossoms cling,

And soft the sea breeze greets the hours

With music from the land of flowers;

The lilac bush with greenest leaves

From the bland air its strength receives,

And opens to the morning's eye

Its fragrant crown of purple dye.

 

The forest from its stately head

Shakes off its garland pale and dead,

And like an oriental queen

Puts on its dress of living green;

Its dusky limbs, seen here and there,

Serve but to make its robe more fair;

While flowers of earliest blooming greet

The sun-shine flickering at its feet.

 

Deep with the tide of melted snows

On its wild way the river goes,

Its truant angler answering shrill

The plough boy's signal on the hill,

When from the school house in the vale,

The pedagogue, with visage pale,

Strides forth to save, with rod and rule,

The blockhead of the district school.

 

The fruit trees blossoming in pride,

Like almond groves on Carmel's side,

Wave in the morning gale, and fling

Their petals on the lap of spring;

The running myrtle twines around

The grave within the burial ground,

Where, startled by affection's tread,

Flits the sweet bird that loves the dead.

 

How soothing is the time of flowers,

Of humming bees and whispering bowers,

When rosy children seek the wood,

Where the sly partridge trains her brood;

Then fierce consumption stops awhile

And spreads o'er beauty's face a smile,

While nature, from her slumbering free,

Warms the cold heart and leafless tree.

 

When the lone winter of the soul

Shall lose its terrible control,

And from its cold embrace the heart,

Like the first flower of spring, shall start;

Oh may the breeze of Eden play

Around it in eternal day,

And cause its sickly bud to bloom

The fairest flower beyond the tomb.

May 1, 1845. Pittsfield Sun 45(2328): 1. Poetry feature on the front page. From the Madisonian.

Spring - An 1845 Poem

By J.T. Wall. Morgantown, April 15, 1845.

She comes! she comes! the goddess of spring!

And the gleam of her bright and waving wing,

As she sweeps along thro' the breeze and beam,

Brightens the waves of the waking stream.

She comes! and the grim old winter king

Has spread to the blast his frosty wing,

And far away in the North has flown,

To his frozen halls and his icy throne!

A mantle of beauty and life is cast

Wherever the vernal goddess has passed —

She has shaken her wing and the sparkling showers

She has breathed on the peaks of the lofty mountains,

And their snows are gone and the cool sweet fountains

Thro' their vallies are bursting wild and free,

And their waves make music and mirth and glee!

The hills away in the distance are seen,

Robing themselves in colors of green;

The blue-bells peep from their woodland bowers,

Inhaling the breath of the joyous hours;

And flowers are springing in vale and dell.

And many a tale of love they tell;

Oh! many a story their beauties will speak,

And many a blush to the burning cheek

Will come, when they pass as a painful token

Of some forgotten and promises broken!

The birds are here and their thrilling strain

Gladdens the free blue sky again;

The lark is up with the morn's first ray,

And high thro' the blue vault speeds away;

And the martin has come that was gone so long,

Gladdening all with his joyous song;

And his plumage gleans in the warm sunlight,

As he glances away in his arrowy flight.

The stainless sky o'er the lake is bending —

Its own deep hue to its bright wave lending;

The earth from its wintry sleep is waking,

A world of beauty upon us is breaking —

But my wild harp fails thy beauties to sing,

So, welcome, welcome! spring! sweet spring!

May 8, 1845. New York Daily Tribune 5(25): 4.

Come Hither, Bright Bird

By H.F.C. Selected for the Watchman.

Come hither bright bird, from thy wild native bower,

While high in the hill tops the sun rises clear,

Come, sing a sweet song to the new opened flower,

And drink off the dew drop; it looks like a tear.

 

It cannot be true, that, so stainless and young,

The heart of my flower has been clouded by grief,

I would not then see on it outwardly hung

The semblance of sorrow to burden a leaf.

 

Be quick! for it has but a morning to live

So fresh in its odor, its beauty so fair.

To pay for thy music, for thee it will give

The first spring breathing it throws upon air.

 

Make basic, little vagrant! 'tis waiting for thee,

Its perfume to take on they delicate plume,

Come, say, if a brighter or sweeter can be

Concealed in thy desert home, lonely to bloom.

 

It has not yet looked in the stream of the fount

To see how itself to another may shine,

It has not been taught its attractiveness to count,

A study too sure to begin their decline!

 

For well do I know in this light world of ours

Where loveliness withers and beauty is vain,

It chances too oft with the fairest of flowers,

That after the mirror, few charms will remain.

 

Of praising her then, pretty minstrel beware

Whatever they wonder her glory to hail,

If told for but once, she is winning and rare,

'Twill follow too soon she is simple and frail!

 

Yet come, and thy rapture in melody pour,

While flitting delighted around my sunflower,

But let her believe thou has left many more,

Her rivals, that bloom in the far away bower!

May 30, 1845. Vermont Watchman and State Journal 39(29): 1. Front-page poetry feature.

To a Bird in Winter

By C.D. Beers.

Lonely bird! what doest thou here?

The sky is dark and the storm is drear;

Hast thou no shelter, no downy nest

Where with thy brood thou canst sweetly rest?

Hast thou no thought

That the raging storm with ill is fraught!

 

Where are thy fellows? or art thou left

Alone — of thy joyous mates bereft?

Or have they sought some sunny clime

To revel among the fragrant thyme

That yields it sweet

To the gentle touch of their tiny feet?

 

Thou'rt welcome to stay! thy plumage bright,

Like a summer sunbeam, gladdens our sight :

Ay, welcome to stay through the winter long,

To cheer its oft with thy chirp and song;

Here's shelter for thee,

Sweet bird! 'till the leaf is on the tree.

March 5, 1846. Vermont Watchman and State Journal 40(16): 1.

April - An 1846 Poem

By Wm. H.C. Hosmer. April 14.

I.

A subtle masquer is abroad,

Attended by a merry band,

Gemming with emerald the sod,

And breathing fragrance through the land :

Now, in a robe of blue and gold,

He wraps his form of graceful mould,

And whispers — 'I am May,'

In tones of ravishment — soon

He puts more gloomy raiment on

A sterner part to play.

II.

By April of the sunny tress

The mighty spell of death is broke,

As marble, with a fond caress,

To life the son of Belus woke :

His magic flute of many keys

Gives to the soft, enamored breeze,

Notes that recall the lost —

Plumed exiles far away that flew

When brown the leaves of Autumn grew,

Touched by a 'killing frost.'

III.

The blackbird chants, musician shrill,

Perched lightly on some budding tree,

And the blithe robin opens her bill

Flooding the grove with melody :

The blue-bird carols on the wing,

And in my frozen heart the spring

Of joy wells up again;

You lark, whose pulsing breast hath drawn

Its color from the golden dawn,

Whistles a cheerful strain.

IV.

Buds of the maple, redly tinged,

Are bursting in the naked wood,

And passing clouds, with amber fringed,

Drop diamonds on the dimpling flood,

Moist mould, disturbed by spade or plow,

A grateful smell is yielding now

In field and garden-close;

Bright trout are leaping in the brook,

And craftily his baited hook

The silent angler throws.

V.

Few violets as yet adorn

Glade, river-bank and meadow-sod;

But welcome to the wind of morn

The daffodil and crocus nod :

More gorgeous pets can June-time boast,

But vernal flowers call up a host

Of recollections dear,

And fair, expanding hopes that die,

Or dormant in the bosom lie

When older grows the year.

VI.

While crimson with a quicker flow

Is coursing through the veins of age

He deems the scroll of Long Ago,

Though blurred, a newly-written page.

Gay Childhood of the radiant brow

His maddest prank is playing now,

Waking his wildest cry :

No longer closeted with books

On wave and land the Student looks —

Enchantment in his eye.

VII.

The moonshine of an April night

Is balsam to a fevered soul.

And pastures, bathed in glimmering light,

Invites me forth alone to stroll;

And fall my feet without a sound

Upon its tender green;

Earth, late so desert like, hath donn'd

Vestments in beauty far beyond

The wardrobe of a queen.

VIII.

Light curtain-folds of hazy blue

Hang, star-emblazoned, in the sky,

And far-off groves, that limit view,

Tower with their silvery tops on high :

The music of a ceaseless hymn

That riseth from the cloisters dim,

Quells the low plaint of Care;

Voices, inaudible when Day

A babbler loud, holds gaudy sway,

Float on the tides of air.

IX.

Thrice welcome, April! Beauty sips

One draught of thy refreshing wine,

And Song once more is on her lips,

Bloom on her countenance divine,

Retreating Winter vainly flings

A snow-flake from his feeble wings

To mar thy work of joy;

The sports of Easter are thine own

When manhood throws his burden down,

And personates the boy.

X.

Earth's Laureate Bard in other years,

Warmed into being by the breath,

Drank from thy cup of sun-lit tears,

And learned thy spell to conquer Death.

The lights and shadows of thy face

Upon his pictured leaves we trace,

Thy humors quaint and wild;

The Skeletons of Rain heard

His awful, vivifying word,

And, like thy landscape, smiled.

April 25, 1846. New York Daily Tribune 6(14): 4.

To the First Birds of Spring

Ye come, ye come, bright warbling things,

And joy is in your song.

Ye bear upon your dewy wings

The spring's first breath along.

 

Ye herald in the happy morn,

That is the birth of flowers;

Ye tell that winter's chills have gone,

Its snows and icy towers.

 

Ye bide the earth in its carpet weave,

In Nature's matchless loom,

The warp for many a grassy leaf,

The wool from flowret's loom.

 

Ye bid the naked branches dress,

In all their proud array,

And all things don their loveliness,

To welcome back the day.

 

Ye bid the icy fetters fall

From many a prisoned rill;

And onward, joyful at your call,

They gambol down the hill.

 

All nature wakes from sleep; the cloud

Shades not the sun's bright rays;

No more the storm-winds, howling loud,

Disturb the zephyr's lay.

 

Pass on, pass on, to other land,

Ye birds of merry note;

Sing there of spring, ye starry band,

From every tuneful throat.

 

And gladden every heart that hears

Your message from above,

Pass on, dry up old winter's tears,

Sweet harbingers of spring.

May 14, 1846. Jeffersonian Republican 6(49): 1.