Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/290

 274 FORTUNATUS COSBY. [1840-50. And thither, for many a weary day, The desolate maid was wont to stray, To see, ere the shadows fade and melt, If mirror'd there his image dwelt — But the limpid wave No bright image gave. But hers who beside its margin knelt. Another, and yet another sun. His weary course has wearily run — And he comes not with its golden set — The brave and the true, can he forget? She sits there alone On that mossy stone, And looks and prays for his coming yet ! At morn, at noon, and at eventide. She sits and weeps by that fountain's side ; And she thinks and dreams of him alone. The loving and lov'd who was all her own ! But the sun that told Happy hours of old. Shall sliine never more as once it shone. Ah ! never again shall she behold. And never again shall she infold That cherish'd form. — and never again Shall his presence light her darken'd brain ! And love never more Shall bind and restore The broken links of that broken chain. TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. Bird of the wild and wondrous song, I hear thy rich and varied voice Swelling the greenwood depths among. Till hill and vale the while rejoice. Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, I list to that inspiring strain ; I thread the forest's tangled maze The thousand choristers to see, Who, mingled thus, their voices raise In that delicious minstrelsy ; I search in vain each pause between — The choral band is still unseen. 'Tis but the music of a dream. An airy sound that mocks the ear ; But hark again ! the eagle's scream — It rose and fell, distinct and clear ! And list ! in yonder hawthorn bush. The red-bird, robin, and the thrush ! Lost in amaze I 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 has held control, Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. And yet the woods are vocal still. The air is musical with song ; O'er the near stream, above the hill, The wildering notes are borne along ; But whence that gush of rare delight? And what art thou, or bird, or sprite? — Perched on yon maple's topmost 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-omened owl, be mute, be mute ! — Thy native tones I hear again. More sweet than harp or lover's lute ; Compared with thy impassioned tale, How cold, how tame the nightingale. Alas ! capricious in thy power. Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled: The mimic rules the changeful hour. And all the soul of song is dead ! But no — to every borrowed 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,