For the Intelligencer. THE MOCKING BIRD,
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Q! how love thy pleasing lay, hich iailS so sweetly on my ear, To usher in the rising day, With melody most soft and clear. Thou hast music in thy strS;n, Unlike t1 aught I've heard before, Which soothes the heart oft touched with pain, Bleeding at every opening pore. Thy varied notes how delicate! So tenderly they rise and fall As Il with sacred joy elate, Thou dldst on me, for praises call would obey thy soothing voice If had power like thee to sing, And make these verdant groves rejoice, Tins still retreat with music ring. But welcome 10 thy song, sweet bird, Where peace and sacred stiffness reign Here shall thy artess notes be heard, Thy fond adnirer to retain. The breath of spring thou shalt inhale, And dwell among these fragrant bowers, Upon thy choicest sweets iegae, And rest thy bosom on their flowers. No one shall interrupt t.y lay, By harsher sounds quie dissonant, Whlie thou ant waibling all the day, With limitations innocent. Ihou hast no restless wanderings, To leave thy own delightful cline, No yaln aud wild imaginings, ln borrowed plumage ere to shine. Thou hast the native gift alone. The genius of inspiring song, To make all other notes thy own, As if they did to thee belong.

 

 Thy every carol seems to breathe The very note O. sympathy, As if the heart thou couldst relieve, Ofa it's inward agony. Thou art like some Eolan Tyre, Which varies at the breath of even To charm me like an angel quire Echoing through the arch of Heaven. Thy harp is always newly strung, . No chord unloosed by sorrows hand, On it's wild warblings long I've hung, Thou sweet enchanress of this land. I've heard thee when captive chained, Far from thy native woodlands dear, Thy music then, my bosom pained, For pity claimed the falling tear. hear thee now with joyful heart, Sweet brd-the object of my song Thou shalt not from thy home depart, Freedom and peace, are all thy own. 5.

 Montgomery, April 13.