Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! swinging high
Aloft in your gilded cage,
The clouds are hurrying over the sky,
The wild winds fiercely rage.
But soft and warm is the air you breathe
Up there with the tremulous ivy wreath,
And never an icy blast can chill
The perfumed silence sweet and still.
Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! from your throat
Breaks forth no flood of song,
Nor even one perfect golden note,
Triumphant, glad, and strong!
But now and then a pitiful wail,
Like the plaintive sigh of the dying gale,
Comes from that arching breast of thine
Swinging up there with the ivy-vine.
Mocking-bird! mocking-bird! well I know
Your heart is far away,
Where the golden stars of the jasmine glow,
And the roses bloom alway!
For your cradle-nest was softly made
In the depth of a blossoming myrtle’s shade;
And you heard the chant of the southern seas
Borne inland by the favoring breeze.
But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!
Should I bear you back again,
Never would song of yours be heard
Echoing through the glen.
For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,
You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,
When the terrible clash of armèd foes
Startled the vale from its dim repose.
At first you sat on a swaying bough,
Mocking the bugle’s blare,
Fearless and free in the fervid glow
Of the heated, sulphurous air.
Your voice rang out like a trumpet’s note,
With a martial ring in its upward float,
And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be
Cheering them on to victory!
But at length, as the awful day wore on,
You flew to a tree-top high,
And sat like a spectre grim and wan,
Outlined against the sky;
Sat silently watching the fiery fray
Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray
Lay together, a silent band,
Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.
Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there
Under the ivy-vine,
You still remember the bugle’s blare,
And the blood poured forth like wine.
The soul of song in your gentle breast
Died in that hour of fierce unrest,
When like a spectre grim and wan,
You watched to see how the strife went on.