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The Mocking-Bird
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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The Mocking-Bird

Early on a pleasant day,
In the poet's month of May,
Field and forest looked so fair,

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So refreshing was the air,
That, despite the morning dew,
Forth I walked, where, tangling grew
Many a thorn and briery bush,
Where the red-breast and the thrush,
Gaily raised their early lay,
Thankful for returning day.
Every thicket, bush and tree,
Swelled the grateful harmony;
As it wildly swept along,
Echo seemed to catch the song,
But the plain was wide and clear,
Echo never whispered there.
From a neighb'ring mocking-bird,
Came the answering note I heard.
Low and soft the song began;
Scarce I caught it, as it ran
Through the melancholy trill
Of the pensive whippoorwill.
Twittering sparrow, cat-bird's cry,

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Red-bird's whistle, robin's sigh,
Black-bird, blue-bird, swallow, lark,
Each his native note must mark.
Oft he tried the lesson o'er,
Each time louder than before;
Burst at length the finished song,
Loud and clear it poured along.
All the choir in silence heard,
Hushed before the wondrous bird.
All transported and amazed,
Scarcely breathing, long I gazed.
Now it reached the loudest swell;
Lower, lower, now it fell;
Lower, lower, lower still,
Scarce it sounded o'er the rill.
Now the warbler ceased to sing,
Now he spread his downy wing;
And I saw him take his flight,
Other regions to delight.
Then, in most poetic wise,
I began to moralize.
In this bird can fancy trace
An emblem of the rhyming race;
Ere with heaven's immortal fire,
Loud they strike the quivering wire;
Ere in high, majestic song,
Thundering wars the verse along;

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Soft and low each note they sing,
Soft they tune each varied string;
Till each power is tried and known,
Then the kindling spark is blown.
Thus perchance has Maro sung;
Thus his harp has Milton strung;
Thus immortal Avon's child;
Thus, O Scott, thy witch-notes wild;
Thus has Pope's melodious lyre,
Beamed with Homer's martial fire;
Thus did Campbell's war-blast roar
Round the cliffs of Elsinore;
Thus he dug the soldier's grave,
Iser, by thy purpled wave.
C. F.