 | The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. |  |
TO A MOCKING BIRD SINGING IN A TREE
SING on thou little mocker, sing--
Sarcastic Poet of the bowery clime!
Though full of scoff thy notes are sweet
As ever filled melodious rhyme!
I love thee for thy gracefulness,
And for thy jollity--such happiness!
Oh, I could seize it for my booty
But that the deed would make thy music less.
Sarcastic Poet of the bowery clime!
Though full of scoff thy notes are sweet
As ever filled melodious rhyme!
I love thee for thy gracefulness,
And for thy jollity--such happiness!
Oh, I could seize it for my booty
But that the deed would make thy music less.
Say, now, do not the feathery bands
Feel hatred for thy songs which mock their own!
And as thou passest by, revile
Thee angrily, with envy in their tone?
Or, are their little breasts too pure
To know the pangs our human bosoms feel?
Perhaps they love thee for that same,
And from thy sweetness new heart-gushes steal?
Feel hatred for thy songs which mock their own!
And as thou passest by, revile
Thee angrily, with envy in their tone?
Or, are their little breasts too pure
To know the pangs our human bosoms feel?
Perhaps they love thee for that same,
And from thy sweetness new heart-gushes steal?
Upon the summit of yon tree
How gaily thou dost sing! how free from pain.
Oh; would that my sad heart could bound
With half the Eden rapture of thy strain!
I then would mock at every tear
That falls where sorrow's shaded fountains flow,
And smile at every sigh that heaves
In dark regret o'er some bewildering woe.
How gaily thou dost sing! how free from pain.
Oh; would that my sad heart could bound
With half the Eden rapture of thy strain!
I then would mock at every tear
That falls where sorrow's shaded fountains flow,
And smile at every sigh that heaves
In dark regret o'er some bewildering woe.
But mine is not thy breast--nor would
I place within its little core one sting
That goads my own, for all the bliss
That heartless robbery of thee Would bring.
Ah no, still keep thy music power
The ever radiant glory of thy soul,
And let thy voice of melody
Soar on, as now, abhorrent of control.
I place within its little core one sting
That goads my own, for all the bliss
That heartless robbery of thee Would bring.
Ah no, still keep thy music power
The ever radiant glory of thy soul,
And let thy voice of melody
Soar on, as now, abhorrent of control.
May be thou sing'st of heaven sometimes,
As raptured consciousness vades thy breast;
May be of some far home where love
O'er bird-land spreads soft cooling shades of rest.
If man, whose voice is far less sweet
Than thine, looks high for his eternal home,
Oh, say, do not thy dreamings too
For some green spot and habitation roam?
As raptured consciousness vades thy breast;
May be of some far home where love
O'er bird-land spreads soft cooling shades of rest.
If man, whose voice is far less sweet
Than thine, looks high for his eternal home,
Oh, say, do not thy dreamings too
For some green spot and habitation roam?
If living thought can never die,
Why should thine own expire? If there is love
Within thy heart, it must live on,
Nor less than man's have dwelling-place above;
Thy notes shall then be brighter far
Than now they be! And I may listen, too,
With finer ear, and clearer soul,
Beneath a shade more soft, a sky more blue.
Why should thine own expire? If there is love
Within thy heart, it must live on,
Nor less than man's have dwelling-place above;
Thy notes shall then be brighter far
Than now they be! And I may listen, too,
With finer ear, and clearer soul,
Beneath a shade more soft, a sky more blue.
| The Poems of John Rollin Ridge -- A reproduction of the 1868
publication plus fugitive poems and notes. | |