University of Virginia Library

TO THE MOCK-BIRD,

SINGING GAYLY IN MY ROOF-TREES THE NIGHT AFTER THE DEATH OF ONE OF MY CHILDREN.

The grief that is at riot in my heart
Would harshly chide to silence thy sweet song,
Vain minstrel, that beside my window sing'st,
Couch'd in thy guarded nest, of all its joys,—
Its peace secure from spoiler—its delights,
That spring from mutual souls, with mutual wings,
That know one course for flight, and seek no more;
Thus linking, through the long, long summer day,
Their happy, idle songs.
Thy rapture brings
My grief. Thou mock'st me, though thou little know'st,
With hopes I cannot feel, and loves that now
Shall make me blest no more. Go, make thy nest
In gardens, where the thoughtless ear of joy
May list thee,—and the idle lips of youth
Give thee meet welcome, in a strain as loud,
Though not so sweet as thine. Beneath my tree
Sits Sorrow. At her feet her treasure lies—
Her young! Go, tremble in thy peaceful nest,
And know, no innocence is so secure
That Death presumes not. Happiest songs like thine,
Caroll'd above that young bird at its birth;
And oh! what joyful dreams were in the hearts
Of the fond pair that watch'd it. Idlest dreams,
Of sweetest summer days, when all their toil
Should be to guide its little wings in flight,
And hearken to its callow song of love,
That now can never rise. Leave this lone tree!—
Sing not those wild and vagrant notes that make
The sad heart loathe thy accents. Other groves
Will give thee shelter, where no spoiler comes,
Or latest comes. Grief claims this home for hers,
For solitude and mourning. Here she craves
More fit companionship with ghostly thoughts;
Shadows that might be smiles, but for the cloud
About them; and the tenderest loves that grew
To sorrows, in the morning of their day,
And so were hallow'd. 'Tis no home for thee!—
When thou hast lost thy brood—when the hawk strikes
Thy fledgling, come thou back and take thy rest,
As thou hast done of old, within thy tree;
And sing, if sing thou canst. I will not chide,
For then, methinks, thy strain will, like mine own,
Tell of thy treasure—of its loveliness,
Bright, dazzling eyes, and of its little chirp,
All sweetness, but which never swell'd to song.