Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/107

But, ah, my beautiful mocking-bird!
 Should I bear you back again,
Never would song of yours be heard
 Echoing through the glen.
For once, ah! once at the dawn of day,
You waked to the roar of the deadly fray,
When the terrible clash of armèd foes
Startled the vale from its dim repose.

At first you sat on a swaying bough,
 Mocking the bugle's blare,
Fearless and free in the fervid glow
 Of the heated, sulphurous air.
Your voice rang out like a trumpet's note,
With a martial ring in its upward float,
And stern men smiled, for you seemed to be
Cheering them on to victory!

But at length, as the awful day wore on,
 You flew to a tree-top high,
And sat like a spectre grim and wan,
 Outlined against the sky;
Sat silently watching the fiery fray
Till, heaps upon heaps, the Blue and Gray
Lay together, a silent band,
Whose souls had passed to the shadowy land.

Ah, my mocking-bird! swinging there
 Under the ivy-vine,
You still remember the bugle's blare,
 And the blood poured forth like wine.
The soul of song in your gentle breast
Died in that hour of fierce unrest,
When like a spectre grim and wan,
You watched to see how the strife went on.