Here is the triumph, "in special," of Man's creativeness over that of Earth! We should like to see the old Dame or any of her Poet-Birds surpass this charmingly refined mode of populating a Heaven! But yet, withal, it is the legitimate procreation of "Music married to immortal verse," and the logical deduction from our "foregone conclusions," that while Earth's music-notes are embodied in the forms of Birds, those of Man become angels ! Birds love best" the bedabbled morn," and their boldest, freest song bursts forth in wild, sweet garrulous greeting to the sun-while their evening hymns are plaining low and mellow! Our Poets have not been remarkable for seeing the sun rise. They permit "Full many a glorious morn To flatter the mountain-tops" unreproved of them. They rather affect the ghostly watches of the moon, and though given to becoming somewhat "mellow," too, of evenings, "the wild disguise has been apt to almost antick" them. "Cup us till the world goes round," was ever the favorite chorus of their mellow vespers. God bless them! Poor Chaucer is not the only one of whom it might be said "That mark upon his lip is wine!" The song-bird with its pipes a-weary sips, for refreshing, the fiery dews in spired of the sun. They, as well to awake the frost-bound blood or rouse the sacred madness, have quaffed at this 66 Thespian spring, Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing Their true-paced numbers and their holy lays." Not a strictly Washingtonian sentiment, by the way, but it will do, since Birds and Poets are accountable for it-though so staid a Poet as Wordsworth talks about "Thou drunken Lark!" Birds are proverbially improvident and regard ful of the injunction, "give thyself no thought for the morrow, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink"-for with them " sufficient to the day is the joy thereof!" That therein Birds and Poets do most agree, the Lay of "The Flower and Leaf" shall bear us witness. The gentle Poet, idling through an embowered Dream-land, becomes "Ware of the fairest medler tree That ever yet in all my life I see. Wherein a goldfinch leaping pretilie Fro bough to bough." The little bird begins to sing "So passing sweetly, that by manifold It was more pleasaunt than I could devise." Thereby ravished into paradise, he sat him down upon the sote grasse" to drink in tranquilly the fullness of the new bliss; and reclined thus, his heart begins to chaunt of itself-like wind-stirred boughs concerning this song of its little Brother which so moved it. Above all images of soft delight, that rippling accord was "More pleasaunt to me by many fold So pleasaunt a ground of none earthly man!" "And then wist I and saw full well That Idlenesse me served well, That put me in such jolitie." But then, who does not love that "jolitie" when he understands that "There was many a bird singing Throughout the yerde all thringing," "is fit for treasons, stratagems," &c. Ay, he is the veriest hind that ever turned up clod, who has not a fountain of sweet apprehensions stirred within him when he hears, mellowed through the gray rifts of Time, the rhythm of "These birdes that I you devise They song her song as faire and well As angels doon espirituell." Ah, exquisite Idlers!-would that in this busy, froward, vexing "Play," the only "acts" for those like you might be to Sit apart and sing, 66 And smoothe your golden hair!" To the Bird, this gay, blissful Aiden is the reality of sunshiny life-to the pale 66 But however charming these general "similitudes" of the Birds and Poets may be to us, it is necessary for us to remember that there is such a thing as being cloyed of sweetness" known in the world! We must descend to particulars in illustrating our theory of concordance. We have said that song-birds were the Anti-types of they who "shall be accounted Poet Kings." By this we mean that-for each of the Human Poets who has illustrated the external relations of Humanity distinctly from himself—or, in other words, who has seen and sung of things as they are-and been purely creative-our mother furnishes among Birds a distinct Anti-type. For instance—as the most immediate and convenient example-what sentient thing so strikingly illustrates Shakspeare as the Mocking Bird? Though circumstances rendered the interposition of a "Discoverer" necessary to bring to light the New World, which alone could furnish the prototype of such a Genius, yet it is not the less true that it has been found. And here we, daringly perhaps, present it. The Mocking Bird is the Monarch of Earth's song-imperial over all the choir of woods and plains that lie beneath the stars-as Shakspeare is over that more spiritual choir which, "In the rapid plumes of song Clothed itself sublime and strong." Shakspeare is more human than humanity itself-in the subtilty of his mimetic art another "nature that shapes man better." The Mocking Bird in its native powers of song surpasses all other birds; and even when imitating them, "All that ever was, Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. On some fair morning, when our Mother wears such holiness of smiling peace upon her face that the dreamy Poet wandering forth might be pardoned for supposing that he was "Amidst the young green wood of Paradise, "With wanton heed and giddy cunning "Such harmonious madness By the way, in this connection we will down by some dull doubter as a mere quote authority, lest we might be set rhapsodist. Mr. Audubon is the highest upon such subjects, and he says: "They are not the soft sounds of the flute or of the hautboy that I hear, but the sweeter notes of Nature's own music. The mellowness of the song, the varied modulations and gradations, the extent of its compass, the great brilliancy of execution, are unrivaled. There is probably no bird in the world that possesses all the musical qualifications of this king of song, who has derived all from Nature's self." Shakspeare was diverse as a peopled world; all moods, all thoughts, all humors of all men, alike were his. The verisimilitudes and Protean versatility of the Mocking Bird are quite as strange. Indeed, its power of adaptation is most remarkable. The same authority quoted above represents it in its native and congenial home-the dew-dropping, odorbreathing South-as the most gentle and confiding of creatures. We can bear eye-witness of this; for here it is known and cherished in the fraternal spirit of our Philosophy, and is as fearless, familiar and domestic as a household sprite. We have seen it, as he represents, place its nest openly upon the fence by the side of the public road, and have often thrown crumbs to it as it hopped about the doorsill. But like all vigorous natures, it is restless and a wanderer-though, with a sagacious and mysterious sympathy or apprehension, it never pushes its migrations beyond the vicinage of Humanity of some sort or other. It is too conscious and fastidious ever to waste its sweetness. We remember it as the pioneer in Southern Kentucky; for it always waits until the conquering axe has made the Eden of meadows, clover-fields and gardens ready for its coming; and in this character it is the very antipode of the Bird of Louisiana. We saw the first one that made its appearance in the neighborhood of our native town. We were quite a youngling, with that old Saxon-robber impulse of destructiveness rioting in our veins. We had our first gun in hand, and it was with the fierce exultation of our savage blood that we saw the first victim fluttering plumb from the tree-top, or the deathspring of a stricken Hare. Racing through the meadows, slaying and to slay, one morning we saw afar off upon a tall tree a graceful Bird, with white upon its wings, fluttering about as though at a loss whether it would be safe to alight and sit still. We at once knew it for a stranger; for every gesture, quip and whim of every particular denizen of wood and plain around us was familiar to us as our own five fingers and toes. We forthwith inhospitably swore that we would possess ourselves of the wanderer dead or alive. We attempted to approach it--in a moment it was gone to another tree-we followed with more caution and as little success-again and again we tried. In a word, no Jack-o-Lantern ever led simple lout of a boor so devious and difficult a dance, through thickets, quagmires, over rude break-neck grounds, as we were drawn to traverse in that futile chase. We reached home weary, dusty and forlorn, cursing the sober circumstantial wit of this wild, fleeting passenger. We saw it often afterwards, but never gave it another chase. Its mate soon came, and the Pioneers built their nice tangled house in some secret place and as brood after brood went forth, it came to be, that all the region round about so "Resounded Their anthems sweet devised of love's prayse, That all the woods theyr echoes back rebounded, As if they knew the meaning of their lays." At first the dull, Genius loci, did not regard this witching revelation of enchanted land that was giving its slow-paced hours quick wings, until we-with that faculty of giving prestige to things (ahem!!) which is peculiar to us-told them what a miracle it was, and took the fresh, young girls out with us to hear its star-felt strathspeys quiver through the Moon. Then Mocking Birds became "the rage." No lady's boudoir was complete without one caged, and all the bad, vagrant boys in the country were drafted into service to find their nests and young. And it was wonderful to see how-in the precise ratio of the persecution they were subjected to under this new mania-their wariness and foresight were increased. We ourselves, for the purpose of obtaining a closer insight into their habits, it must be confessed, were numbered among their persecutors. Often have we, with a particular individual in our eye, which had shown surpassing powers, (for they differ in this respect as men do!) spent a whole day in the fields watching and following its every movement, in the hope of discovering its nest. But though there were hundreds of others passing-in the suburbs of a town-the shrewd creature would seem to have singled us as a prying inquisitor from all the rest, and, do what we might, would baffle us hour after hour, and day after day. We came, after a while, to regard their sagacity as something wizard-like-inscrutably beyond our ken. So it was, really. The same surprising prowess which made it supreme in its own life otherwise, made it thus here under the compulsion of circumstances. So when impulse and poverty had driven Shakspeare to London, his masterly genius mated itself with circumstances as he found them, (so far as was necessary,)-with the base huckstering elements he saw to be all-powerful around the theatres-until, interfusing his own "candid nature" into those about him, he elevated them upon his triumphs into dignity, as well as awed respect. But this facility of adaptation illustrates only a phase of its Shakspearian character. Shakspeare was the genius of "infinite humors"-Jack Falstaff, Bardolph, Shallow, Nym, et ii omnes-with Puck, Ariel, Titania and Oberon thrown in-stand like chiseled laughter upon the monumental front of Time. Our feathered Shakspeare can, in its sphere, contend for nothing so sublimely fixed-but that it is a practical, habitual humorist of the rarest water, we can testify. We have seen it alight amidst a squad of purple Martins pluming themselves upon the bare topmost boughs of a soli ary old oak, in the early sunshine. The Martins would turn their heads-stare soberly at the intruder-half-spread their wings quickly, and twitter to each other in astonishment. The unbidden guest would cock his eye, stare, throw out his wings and twitter too-aping their every gesture and note so exactly that it was impossible to tell who was who! The Martins evidently much surprised, would throw out their wings a little wider, and chirp and twitter in somewhat louder concert. The Mocker would coolly ape each sound and gesture. The simple Birds would seem astonished, and bounce away into the air with short circlings and vociferous clamors-questioning each other what all this meant. The mocking Elf would spring up too and clamor loudly and more clear than they in their own tones-until at last, after a deal of fluttering and to-do, the Martins would come back and quietly settle round him-seeming to have conIcluded that he must be "one of them!" There he would sit awhile deliberately doing all they did-saying all they said -till some new freak would beset his volatile humor-when, to the sudden shriek of a Hawk in their midst, the simple but valiant Birds would dip swiftly downward, and with shrieks of rage come swooping back to punish their imaginary foe! Nothing was to be seen but the stranger demurely chirruping their own soft language just where he sat before. The poor birds would appear evidently to feel that there was something "more than met the eye" than they could understand in all this-and would scatter in affright and leave him sole occupant of the perch. This was what the knave seemed to have desired, and would forthwith commence pouring his whimsically glorious gushing melodies until that old tree-top seemed to be populous with infinite various throats-now piping in measured, slow succession their peculiar strains-then hurried and rushing, trampling with musical tread upon each other's heels. We will here dismiss this particular contrast. We are fully prepared to expect, that in this instance as well as in those which are to follow our "Similitudes"—our whole Philosophy indeedwill appear to many surface-glancing minds, "Like the man's thought dark in the in fant's brain We are smilingly content to rest all upon this interpretation, so that-in the Poetical sense-it include the pregnant meaning of "The infantine familiar clasp Of things divine." And then again, who but Milton, “ blind Thamyris" among the "Prophets old" should be a type of the Nightingale ? Who does not remember that delicate and touching comparison instituted by himself in allusion to his blindness? Who, other than he, could under such circumstances of blank, rayless desolationpoised on his own supreme spirituality have loftily fed on thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers, as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal note." All minds must be impressed by the strange excelling appositeness of the "similitude" in this case. Ah, Soul of the Beautiful! thy -begins anew Its strain when other harmonies stopt short Leave the dinned air vibrating silvery." To both, the prerogative has been given, as a dominion over that ominous, awful pause 'twixt Life and Light, "To satiate the hungry dark with melody." With both it is a solemn minstrelsysolemn and liquid from its shadowy source-pregnant and high as prophesy. The Nightingale "The light-winged Driad of the trees," sitting and singing 'neath the moon, will make the long-drawn shades to stir, and night's deep bosom palpitate with bliss. In its rapt song, fluent and rounded like the roll of waters going free, the fountain of its heart comes forth-now the tide is full and slow, up-swelling through the dusky void-then it is rippled out in low, sweet laughings, and again burst in the shrilly ring of jubilant loudest symphonies. What a joy it is beneath the "visiting moon," "The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close Of evening, till the star of dawn may fail, Thus interfused upon the silentness." In the tender melancholy, the full, liquid flow of Milton's majestic measures we can perceive something more than an imaginary resemblance to the characteristics of the bird's song; "And Philomel her song with tears doth steep!" as well as the Blind Singer. The nations crowding eagerly around the pedestal of the Poet's fame, to do obeisance to his memory, bear witness that "The mellow touch of music most doth wound The soule when it doth rather sigh than sound;" things else solemn and strong, love best to wear. In the Bird, with its plain, brown plumes, hid in the lowly hawthorn, singing to the night, who does not see a resemblance to the Republican Poet, in his coarse, simple garb, retired beyond the reach of persecution to his humble home; while, out of his darkness, over all the world, "Prophetic echoes flung dim melody." With so many and such singular points of coincidence between them, who can doubt but that the Poet felt them, and that his mild spirit yearned, and was moved by the tender drawing of affinities towards his tuneful Brother. He, rather than poor Keats, might have passionately pleaded: "So, let me be thy choir, and make and moan Upon the midnight hours. Thy voice thy lute, thy pipe thy incense sweet From swingéd censers teeming ; Thy shrine thy grove, thy oracle thy heat, Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming." As is Milton, so is the Nightingale pe and, softened down the lengthened night culiarly the favorite of the poets. They of ages, do those are regarded alike with a gentle and deep affection. Kind old Spenser has expressed this for us all, and for all Time, concerning the Bird; and the Poet and the Bird are one. "Hence, with the nightingale will I take parte, That blessed byrd that spends her time of sleepe In songs and plaintive pleas Other coincidences-if possible, even yet more apparent-suggest themselves. "Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat But the thought of Shelley at once occurs in the high place of that aerial melodist. Who has not, long ago, linked indissolubly in his memory the image of this Poet with that of the Skylark. One could not avoid this association, even if written. The Poet felt it to be his skiey the "Ode to a Skylark" had never been of hearts, in the silver-footed cadences of Brother, and greeted it out of his heart that most rare of exquisite strains. It seems to us that the poet had unconsciously thrown out his own soul upon |