Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN THE PINE-TOP, by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A MOCKING-BIRD IN THE PINE-TOP, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Bird of the south-sweet songster!
Last Line: Shall live for immortality.
Subject(s): Birds; Happiness; Music & Musicians; Singing & Singers; Joy; Delight


BIRD of the South—sweet songster!
Brighter than the evening star
That beams above thy perch afar
Thy song pours out, its every bar
Music'd with melody.
Singing in the pine-top green,
Of all the feathered tribe the queen—
A rising, falling, rippling sheen
Of flowing harmony.

Lute of the South—our Southland!
Pouring from thine em'rald throne
On the pine tree's topmost cone
Notes by mortals never known,
Of sweet simplicity.
What sunbeams made that twinkling trill?
What zephyr tuned that throat, until
Its life and breath and spirit fill
Thy soul of poesy?

Mimic of the South—sly warbler,
Hast thou caught the firefly's glow
In the sparkle of thy flow,
Or gathered from the sunset's bow
Thy shafts of rhapsody?
Magnolia blossoms in the breeze—
Art thou singing now of these
While filling Heaven's purpling frieze
With incense musical?

In that calm note, soft and low,
Dost thou see the bayou's flow
Bespangled with the stars that grow
From water lilies?
Or up the green decked, wooded hill
Where speeds the brook to water mill,
Is that jingling note its trill
Down ravine rushing?

Deeper, sweeter flows the stream
All merry mad with glide and gleam
Until the very woodlands seem
To reel with euphony.
Softly sweet, 'neath paling dome,
Thou singest now of that true home,
Where we shall weep no more, nor roam,
But rest forever.

Listening to the revery note
From thy moonlit perch, there float
Tales of other days remote,
Mem'ries of chivalry.
Tales that tell of times a-gone—
The cotton's banner 'mid the corn—
Of Charity that's ever born
'Mid peace and plenty.

Changing now to deeper tone
Comes a war-note from thy throne,
And sweetness for a season's flown
For martial measures.
Short and quick with bugle thrill
The war-drum echoes in thy trill—
The fife's fierce scream and trumpet fill
Thy clarion melody.

Silently—a march in Saul—
Thou changest now to fun'ral pall;
Thou mournest now for those who fall
Wearing the gray.
Ay, weep; for in the rush of wrong
That followed with the alien throng,
Thy people needed every song
Thy heart could give.

Hark! another note we hear,
'Tis the plowboy's whistle clear,
As morning finds him with his gear,
To yoke prosperity.
Then, as up the sunshine gleams
Our night of dread melts into dreams
Of harvest fields and peaceful streams
And barns of plenty.

Bird of the South—dear songster,
Sing in the pine-top, ever sing,
Cause all the southern air to ring,
Music and evergreens o'er us fling
And teach the religion of harmony.
Sing in the pine-top, in that tree,
The emblem of eternity—
Sing till thy people, hearing thee,
Shall live for immortality.





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