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 one from other's no existence weaves,

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
Their heart to harmony-no jar intrudes
Upon thy sounding melody. Oh, where,
Amid the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes?

Ha! what a burst was that! the Eolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the lone woods-and now it comes again→→→
A multitudinous melody-like a rain.

Of glossy music under echoing trees,

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TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul
With a bright harmony of happiness—
Even as a gem is wrapt, when round it roll
Their waves of brilliant flame-till we become,
Even with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb,
And pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal.

I cannot love the man who doth not love
(Even as men love light,) the song of birds:
For the first visions that my boy-heart wove,
To fill its sleep with, were, that I did rove
Amid the woods-what time the snowy herds
Of morning cloud fled from the rising sun
Into the depths of heaven's heart; as words
That from the poet's tongue do fall upon
And vanish in the human heart; and then
I revel'd in those songs, and sorrow'd, when
With noon-heat overwrought, the music's burst was done.

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades,
Alone with nature-but it may not be;

I have to struggle with the tumbling sea

Of human life, until existence fades

Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Through the thick woods and shadow-checker'd glades,
While nought of sorrow casts a dimness o'er
The brilliance of thy heart-but I must wear,
As now, my garmenting of pain and care--
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet why complain ?-What though fond hopes deferr'd
Have overshadow'd Youth's green paths with gloom!
Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard,—
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird!

MY CHILD.

To welcome me, within my humble home;-
There is an eye with love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume!

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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;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

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,
Whate'er I may be saying,

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.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there!

LAKE SUPERIOR.

He lives !—In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!”

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

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
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave
Their twilight shade thy borders o'er,
And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave
Their rugged forms along thy shore.

Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves,
With listening ear, in sadness broods;
Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods,

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