236 MOCKING-BIRD. 



Lost in amaze we look around, 

 Nor thrush nor eagle there behold! 



But still that rich aerial sound, 

 Like some forgotten song of old, 



That o'er the heart hath held control, 



Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. 



And yet the woods are vocal still, 



The air is redolent with song 

 Up the hill-side, above the rill 



The wild'ring sounds are borne along! 

 But where, ye viewless minstrels! where 

 Dwell ye? on earth or upper air? 

 High on a solitary bough, 



With glancing wings and restless feet, 

 Bird of untiring throat art thou, 



Sole songster in this concert sweet! 

 So perfect, full and rich each part, 

 It mocks the highest reach of art! 



Once more, once more, that thrilling strain! 



Ill-omen'd owl, be mute, be mute! 

 Thy native notes I hear again! 



More sweet than harp or lover's lute ! 

 Compared with thy impassion'd tale, 

 How cold, how tame the nightingale! 

 Alas ! capricious is thy power, 



Thy 'wood note wild' again is fled; 



