Birds and Poets | Page 4

out its song with the utmost clearness and abandon,--a slowly rising musical rocket that fills the night air with harmonious sounds. Here are both the lark and nightingale in one; and if poets were as plentiful down South as they are in New England, we should have heard of this song long ago, and had it celebrated in appropriate verse. But so far only one Southern poet, Wilde, has accredited the bird this song. This he has done in the following admirable sonnet:--
TO THE MOCKINGBIRD
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe??Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe.?Wit--sophist--songster--Yorick of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school,?To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch scoffer, and mad Abbot of Misrule!?For such thou art by day--but all night long
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this, thy moonlight song,
Like to the melancholy Jaques, complain,?Musing on falsehood, violence, and wrong,
And sighing for thy motley coat again.
Aside from this sonnet, the mockingbird has got into poetical literature, so far as I know, in only one notable instance, and that in the page of a poet where we would least expect to find him,--a bard who habitually bends his ear only to the musical surge and rhythmus of total nature, and is as little wont to turn aside for any special beauties or points as the most austere of the ancient masters. I refer to Walt Whitman's "Out of the cradle endlessly rocking," in which the mockingbird plays a part. The poet's treatment of the bird is entirely ideal and eminently characteristic. That is to say, it is altogether poetical and not at all ornithological; yet it contains a rendering or free?translation of a bird-song--the nocturne of the mockingbird, singing and calling through the night for its lost mate--that I consider quite unmatched in our literature:--
Once, Paumanok,?When the snows had melted, and the Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this seashore, in some briers,?Two guests from Alabama--two together,?And their nest, and four light green eggs, spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,?And every day the she-bird, crouched on her nest, silent, with bright
eyes,?And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
_Shine! Shine! Shine!?Pour down your warmth, great Sun!?While we bask--we two together._
_Two together!?Winds blow South, or winds blow North,?Day come white, or night come black,?Home, or rivers and mountains from home,?Singing all time, minding no time,?If we two but keep together._
Till of a sudden,?Maybe killed unknown to her mate,?One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest,?Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,?Nor ever appeared again.
And thenceforward all summer, in the sound of the sea,?And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea,?Or flitting from brier to brier by day,?I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, The solitary guest from Alabama.
_Blow! blow! blow!?Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore!?I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me._
Yes, when the stars glistened,?All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,?Down, almost amid the slapping waves,?Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.
He called on his mate:?He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.
. . . . . . . . . . .
_Soothe! soothe! soothe!?Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,?And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me._
_Low hangs the moon--it rose late.?Oh it is lagging--oh I think it is heavy with love, with love._
_Oh madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,?With love--with love._
_O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers! What is that little black thing I see there in the white?_
_Loud! loud! loud!?Loud I call to you, my love!?High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves:?Surely you must know who is here, is here;?You must know who I am, my love._
_Low-hanging moon!?What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow??Oh it is the shape, the shape of my mate!?O moon, do not keep her from me any longer._
_Land! land! O land!?Whichever way I turn, oh I think you could give my mate back again,
if you only would;?For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look._
_O rising stars!?Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you._
_O throat! O trembling throat!?Sound clearer through the atmosphere!?Pierce the woods, the earth;?Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want._
_Shake out, carols!?Solitary here--the night's carols!?Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols!?Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!?Oh, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! O