IT has a strange wild note -- that Mocking-bird, I've heard him whistle to the passer by, And scold like any parrot. Now his note Mounts to the play-ground of the lark-- high up, Quite to the sky. And then again it falls, As a lost star falls, down into the marsh, The veriest puddle -- but it stops not thus; 'T will croak like any bull-frog, or 't will squeal Like an old rat, caught tight in the toothed spring Of man's humane contrivancy --and then Rejoicing, mock the trap, and yell out "cheese." So mock we all, and so we imitate The good a little, and the bad a deal. The notes of heaven, of earth, sometimes of hell Are on our tongue-tips. Hear the little wretch, How he does sing, and scream, and mock us all. |