270 THE HUNTER'S VISION. And friends-the dead-in boyhood dear, And there was one who many a year A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride— Bounding, as was her wont, she came And stretched her hand and called his name, Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, The hunter leaned in act to rise: Forward he leaned, and headlong down He saw the rocks, steep, stern and brown, An instant, in his fall; A frightful instant-and no more, The dream and life at once were o'er. 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 vanished 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: 272 TO THE MOCKING BIRD. And thou dost flee into the broad green woods, 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 Even as a gem is wrapped, when round it roll Their waves of brilliant flame-till we become, Ev'n 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, TO THE MOCKING BIRD. 273 And vanish in the human heart; and then I revelled in those songs, and sorrowed, when With noon-heat overwrought, the music's burst was done. I would, sweet bird! that I might live with thee, 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 While nought of sorrow casts a dimness o'er Yet why complain?-What though fond hopes deferred Have overshadowed Youth's green paths with gloom! Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard,— There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird! To welcome me, within my humble home ;— There is an eye with love's devotion bright, The darkness of existence to illume! 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. TO A SHOWER. BY JAMES WILLIAM MILLER. THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! On twangling leaf and dimpling pool— They know it-all the bosomy vales, The withering grass, and fading flowers, Hies on its endless way; All things of earth-the grateful things! Put on their robes of cheer, They hear the sound of the warning burst, And know the rain is near. |