THE SWAN.
Where, like a mirror, spreads the glorious lake
Profound and calm, behold the swan awake
A noiseless ripple, as serene she glides!
How beautiful the down upon her sides!
It seems its dazzling whiteness to have won
From April's snows bright-flashing in the sun;
But of a duller white appears the wing
That vibrates in the mild breath of the spring,
Proud of its strength. Above the tangled reeds
She lifts her neck, then plunges it, and feeds,
Then lengthens it upon the wave, then swerves,
Arching its outline in acanthus curves
Where are the line of beauty she preserves.
Now in her shining silver throat or breast
Her ebon beak, half-hidden, is at rest;
Now moves she under pines of sombre shade
Where Peace and Silence have pavilions made;
Now winds, abandoning the herbs, her fare
That trail behind like thick and glossy hair,
With languid movements, graceful, stately, slow,
To any goal where fancy bids her go.
The grotto where the poet loves to dream,
And hears high mysteries in evening's gleam,
The fount that mourns one absent or at rest
