The Mocking-bird

It has a strange wild note — that Mocking-bird,
I've heard him whistle to the passer by,
And scold like any parrot. Now his note
Mounts to the play-ground of the lark— high up,
Quite to the sky. And then again it falls,
As a lost star falls, down into the marsh,
The veriest puddle — but it stops not thus;
'T will croak like any bull-frog, or 't will squeal
Like an old rat, caught tight in the toothed spring
Of man's humane contrivancy —and then
Rejoicing, mock the trap, and yell out "cheese."
So mock we all, and so we imitate
The good a little, and the bad a deal.
The notes of heaven, of earth, sometimes of hell
Are on our tongue-tips. Hear the little wretch,
How he does sing, and scream, and mock us all.