MOCKING-BIRD. 337 



The mimic rules the changeful hour, 



And all the soul of song is dead ! 

 But no ! to every borrow'd tone, 

 He lends a sweetness all his own. 



On glittering wing, erect and bright, 



With arrowy speed he darts aloft, 

 As though his soul had ta'en its flight, 



In that last strain so sad and soft ^ 

 And he would call it back to life, 

 To mingle in the mimic strife. 

 And aye in every fitful lay 



His frame in restless motion wheels, 

 As though he would indeed essay 



To act the ecstacy he feels; 

 As though his very feet kept time 

 To that inimitable chime. 



And ever as the rising moon 



Lifts her bright orb the trees above, 



He chants his most melodious tune 



While echo makes through all the grove; 



Perched on the topmost bough he sings, 



Till all the forest loudly rings! 



The sleeper from his couch starts up 

 To listen to that lay forlorn, 



