Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul,
Now here, now there
In tree and air,
So free and fair?
Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole,
Inviting the heart to some sweet goal,
Like poet rare,
Beyond compare.
Hast thou a mind, a musical mind?
Who answers “nay”?
Or night or day,
Thy tuneful lay
Brings joy and grief; myself I find
In my inmost soul left far behind;
Yet I essay
The wondrous way.
“Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation;
Nor is that all
In thy charmed call;
I rise, though small,
To laud thy rhythmic re-creation,
Thy prompt and hearty liberation
Of life notes new which me enthrall,
Without man’s pride, and fall.
I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9]
Thy kindred sweet;
Palm Warbler meet
Thou dost repeat,
And modest, tawny Veery of the vale;
Thy music upward leads, and I inhale
Incense replete,
In thy retreat.
As in a dream I hear all tones combine
In Love’s embrace;
And there I see thy topmost place,
O Psyche of thy race!
[9] After the author had written this line he was glad to learn that
the late John Burroughs in his “Birds and Poets,” page 17, spoke of the
Mocking-bird as “both Lark and Nightingale in one.”
[Illustration: MOCKING-BIRD
By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews,
Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.” Sketched originally for
this volume.]
Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine;
For this my soul must alway pine,
With upturned face,
For lyric grace.
Quintessence of event is thine and life;
What soul hath more
On sea or shore,
Now or afore?
Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife
With music, as no magic flute or fife—
Tis varied lore,
Forever more.
Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man,
Brave bird and bright;
Harmonic flight
Is thy delight.
Whenever was it thou did’st plan
Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can?
Without foresight
Thy runic rite.
Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour,
Produce thy chart,
Feel thrills of heart
Of thine, nor part
With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower,
Returning quick, possessing all thy power,
With no life mart
But music art;
Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken,
And glad bestow
Rich magic flow
On all below.
Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen?
But daring flight, until the poet pen
With thee shall glow
Like a sun-lit bow.
More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine,
As thou dost give,
As I love and live,
Is mine; thy nature is forever thine,
But by mutation mystic, yet benign,
As I with joy receive
Thy varied amative,
Is also mine,
In God’s own shrine.