PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

THE MOCKING-BIRDS

Oh, all day long they flood with song

The forest shades, the fields of light;
Heaven's heart is stilled and strangely thrilled
By ecstasies of lyric might;

From flower-crowned nooks of splendid dyes,
Lone dells a shadowy quiet girds;

Far echoes, wakening, gently rise,

And o'er the woodland track send back
Soft answers to the mocking-birds.

Dare breathe in rhythmic Beauty's face;

The winds, in awe, no gusty flaw

Nearer the pale-gold cloudlets draw

Above a charmed, melodious place:

Entranced Nature listening knows

No music set to mortal words,

Nor nightingales that woo the rose,

Can vie with these deep harmonies

Poured from the minstrel mocking-birds.

But, vaguely seen through gulfs of green,

We glimpse the plumed and choral throng— Sole poets born whose instincts scorn

To do Song's lowliest utterance wrong:
Whate'er they sing, a sylvan art,

On each wild, wood-born note conferred,
Guides the hot brain and hurtling heart.
Oh magical flame, whence pulsing came
This passion of the mocking-bird?

Aye pause and hark-be still, and mark
What countless grades of voice and tone
From bosk and tree, from strand and sea,

These small, winged genii make their own:

Fine lyric memories live again,

From tuneful burial disinterred,

To magnify the fiery strain

Which quivering trills and smites the hills
With rapture of the mocking-bird.

Aye pause and hark-be still, and mark

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How downward borne from Song's high clime (No loftier haunts the English lark)

They revel, each a jocund mime:

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Their glad sides shake in bush and brake;

And farm-girls, bowed o'er cream and curd,

Glance up to smile, and think the while
Of all blithe things that flit on wings

None match the jovial mocking-bird.

When fun protrudes gay interludes

Of blissful, glorious unrestraint,

They run, all wild with motley moods,

Thro' Mirth's rare gamut, sly and quaint:

Humors grotesque and arabesque

Flash up from spirits brightly stirred;
And even the pedant at his desk,
Feeling in turn his spirit burn,

Laughs with the loudest mocking-bird.

Oh, all day long the world with song
Is flooded, till the twilight dim;
What time its whole mysterious soul

Seems rippling to the conscious brim:
Arcadian Eve through tranquil skies

Pastures her stars in radiant herds;
And still the unwearied echoes rise,
And down a silvery track send back
Fond greeting to the mocking-birds.

At last, fair boon, the summer moon

Beyond the hazed horizon shines;

Ah, soon through night they wing their flight
To coverts of Æolian pines:

A tremulous hush-then sweet and grand,

From depths the dense, fair foliage girds, Their love notes fill the enchanted land; Through leaf-wrought bars they storm the stars,

These love songs of the mocking-birds.

A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET

[Reprinted from the copyrighted 1882 edition of Hayne's poems, with the permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.]

A little while (my life is almost set!)

I fain would pause along the downward way,
Musing an hour in this sad sunset ray,

While, Sweet, our eyes with tender tears are wet:
A little hour I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger yet,

All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire;
Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire,
And hope has faded to a vague regret,

A little while I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger here:

Behold, who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair:

A little while I still would linger here.

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast,

Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart

(O pitying Christ, those woeful words “We part!"):

So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past,

A little while I fain would hold thee fast.

A little while, when light and twilight meet:

Behind, our broken years; before, the deep
Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep-
A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet;
A little while, when night and twilight meet.

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A little while I fain would linger here:

Behold, who knows what soul-dividing bars
Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars?

Nor can love deem the face of death is fair:

A little while I still would linger here.

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POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR

THE HEART OF LOUISIANA

(BY HARRIET STANTON)

Oh, let me weep, while o'er our land
Vile discord strides with sullen brow,
And drags to earth with ruthless hand
The flag no tyrant's power could bow!

Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid,

While one by one her stars retire,
And pride and power pursue the raid
That bids our liberty expire.

Aye, let me weep, for surely Heaven
In anger views the unholy strife,
And angels weep that thus is riven
The tie that gave to Freedom life.

I cannot shout, I will not sing

Loud pæans o'er a severed tie;
And, draped in woe, in tears I fling

Our State's new flag to greet the sky.

I can but choose, while senseless zeal
And lawless hate is clothed with power,

The bitter cup; but still I feel

The sadness of this parting hour.

I know that thousand hearts will bleed
While loud huzzas the welkin rend;

The thoughtless crowd will shout, "Secede!"
But ah, will this the conflict end?

Oh, let me weep, and prostrate lie

Low at the footstool of my God;

I cannot breathe one note of joy,
While yet I feel His chastening rod.

Sure we have as a nation sinned:

Let every heart its folly own,
And sackcloth as a girdle bind,

And mourn our glorious Union gone.