Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEAD CHILD AND THE MOCKING-BIRD, by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEAD CHILD AND THE MOCKING-BIRD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Once in a land of balm and flowers
Last Line: Moans round their place of sleep!
Subject(s): Death - Children; Death - Babies


ONCE in a land of balm and flowers,
Of rich fruit-laden trees,
Where the wild wreaths from jasmine bowers
Trail o'er Floridian seas;

We marked our Jeannie's footsteps run
Athwart the twinkling glade;
She seemed a Hebe in the sun,
A Dryad in the shade!

And all day long her winsome song,
Her trebles and soft trills,
Would wave-like flow or silvery low
Die down the tinkling rills.

One morn, midmost the foliage dim,
A dark-gray pinion stirs;
And hark! along the vine-clad limb,
What strange voice blends with hers?

It blends with hers which soon is stilled!
Braver the mock-bird's note
Than all the strains that ever filled
The queenliest human throat:

As Jeannie heard, she loved the bird,
And sought thenceforth to share
With her new favorite dawn by dawn,
Her daintiest morning cheer!

But ah! a blight beyond our ken,
From some far feverous wild,
Brought that dark shadow feared of men,
Across the fated child!

It chilled her drooping curls of brown,
It dimmed her violet eyes,
And like an awful cloud stole down
From vague mysterious skies!

At last, one day our Jeannie lay,
All pulseless, pale, forlorn;
The sole sweet breath on lips of death.
The mocking breath of morn!

When just beyond the o'ercurtained room,
(How tender yet how strong!)
Rose through the misty morning gloom,
The mock-bird's sudden song!

Dear Christ! those notes of golden peal,
Seem caught from heavenly spheres;
Yet through their marvellous cadence, steal
Tones soft as chastened tears!

Is it an angel's voice that throbs
Within the brown bird's breast?
Whose rhythmic magic soars, or sobs,
Above our darling's rest?

The fancy passed, but came once more,
When stolen, from Jeannie's bed,
That eve along the porchway floor,
I found our minstrel . . . dead!

The fervor of the angelic strain
His life-chords burned apart,
And blent with sorrow's earthlier pain,
Broke the o'erburdened heart!

Maiden and bird! the self-same grave
Their wedded dust shall keep,
While the long low Floridian wave
Moans round their place of sleep!





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