The Mocking-Bird

From the vale, what music ringing,
Fills the bosom of the night,
On the sense, entranc’d, 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!
Carolling 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 vale above!
Listen! dearest, listen to it!
Sweeter sounds were never heard!
‘Tis the song of that wild poet—
Mime and minstrel—mocking-bird.

Why is’t thus, this sylvan Petrarch
Pours all night his serenade?
‘Tis for some proud woodland Laura,
His sad sonnets all are made!
But he changes now his measure—
Gladness bubbling from his mouth—
Jest, and gibe, and mimic pleasure—
Winged Anacreon of the South!
Listen! dearest, listen to it!
Sweeter sounds were never heard!
‘Tis the song of that wild poet—
Mime and minstrel—mocking-bird.

Bird of music, wit and gladness,
Troubadour of sunny climes,
Disenchanter of all sadness,—
Would thine art were in my rhymes,
O’er the heart that’s beating by me,
I would weave a spell divine;
Is there aught 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.