TO THE MOCKING BIRD

Whence is thy song, Voluptuous soul of the amorous South! Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth; The dews of eve; the mists of morn; The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn; Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn; Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong— Ah! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng?— Thence is thy song! Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor, The passionate love of Juliet; Thy villainous art can weave a net With shreds of song, that never yet Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure. Ophelia's broken heart is thine, And Desdemona's, true and good; Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of blood That will not out in stain or line! Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth! And wondrous Hamlet in a breath! Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words? Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!