TO THE MOCKING BIRD. BY ALBERT PIKE. THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear Thy many voices ringing through the glooms Of these green solitudes-and all the clear, Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs Of vanish'd nations rolls thy music tide. No light from history's starlike page illumes The memory of those nations-they have died. None cares for them but thou-and thou mayst sing, Perhaps, o'er me-as now thy song doth ring Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. Thou scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din, Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and grieves, Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within: And thou dost flee into the broad green woods, And with thy soul of music thou dost win Ha! what a burst was that! the Eolian strain Of glossy music under echoing trees, 11* (125) 126 TO THE MOCKING BIRD. Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul I cannot love the man who doth not love I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, I have to struggle with the tumbling sea Of human life, until existence fades Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar Yet why complain ?-What though fond hopes deferr'd MY CHILD. To welcome me, within my humble home;- 127 Then why complain ?—When death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest Beneath these trees-and from thy swelling breast, O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light. MY CHILD, BY JOHN PIERPONT. I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes-he is not there! Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! So long watch'd over with parental care, Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there!-Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there! LAKE SUPERIOR. He lives !—In all the past Of seeing him again will I despair; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!” Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, 'T will be our heaven to find that-he is there! LAKE SUPERIOR, BY SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. "FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend Boundless and deep, the forests weave Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods, 129 |