WORDSWORTH. AIR is the Swan, whose majesty prevailing He leaves behind a moon-illumin'd wake: An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, Or rival, save the Queen of night, Showering down a silver light, From heaven, upon her chosen favourite, TENNYSON. THE DYING SWAN. HE plain was grassy, wild and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, And loudly did lament. And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Chasing itself at its own wild will, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild Swan's death-hymn took the soul Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold: As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, |