THE SWAN.

The Author believes that there is an Allegory hidden in these lines, but he is not sure.

Passing, had left a weight of shimmering heat
On the tired air. No other creature moved,
Save for the light mosquito and his kind,
Ear-fly and eye-midge. In a neighbouring mead
The comfortable cow forbore to moo,

And, with an air of bland benevolence,

Matured the sidelong oud. The populous farm
Gave forth no sound; and even the ribald ass
Found it too hot, nor made the welkin split
With the derisive relish of his song.
Oh, even as when some mighty orchestra,
Tuned to the fray, for instant noise alert,
In flushed expectancy must still await
Their tardy Captain, whose inspiring beat
Admits them to their clamorous ensemble,
So through that still hour every living thing
Panted and paused for the delaying breeze
To cool them, and refresh their wonted psalm;
While down that hushed aisle of potential din
Moved the proud swan in hauteur to his change.

A dying swan. He bore no signs of death.
Time had not dimmed the lustre of his plumes,
Nor dotage with presuming finger stooped
That settled air of calm complacency

So galling in his kind. One might go far
Before one found a healthier-looking bird.
But, as he came, he sang. He did not know
He sang, or he had hardly been so proud.
Here was no amorous descant of the dove
Nor music of the moon-struck nightingale,
But disconnected, harsh, and immature,
And void of melody, and muttered forth
In broken spasms of soliloquy.

As when some person on a lonely road

Talks to himself, and, when accused thereof,
Says that he didn't so it was with him:-

My royal home, farewell!
For I must go,

Whither I do not know,

And cannot tell.

Others have gone before.

Each of my kingly race,

Passing, was seen no more
About the place.

They gave no parting word;
Without good-bye
Each went, a silent bird;
And so do I.

Slowly I wander on.

E'en as my fathers passed,

I go, a soured and blighted swan,
Mute to the last.

Thus far he sang, and, pausing, seemed to brood
Darkly upon his wrongs. And I, that found
More peevishness than pathos in the bird,
Waited, till he the silence broke again,
And with a voice of growing strength renewed
His vague unbosomings. And thus he sang:-

King of the birds was I.

Monarch by right of all those meaner breeds
That ply a webby paddle 'mid the reeds,
Or dare to fly.

All other fowl beyond
In peerless majesty; by wide consent
Esteemed a necessary ornament
To any pond.

So radiant, and so rare,

That JOVE, when baffled in his fond address,
Assumed my form, with scandalous success
O'er the coy fair.

Slender of outward charm,

Yet of such force, that with one wrathful flap
Of mine imperious pinion I could snap
The human arm.

One thing I lacked, one thing;
To me to me alone the gods denied
One crowning gift: however hard I tried,
I couldn't sing.

Bitter it was to hear

Offensive gander and exulting drake
With odious descant pointedly awake
River and mere.

Bitter to brood alone,

While beasts upon the sward, and in the tree
Birds, would make music scant of melody,
And poor in tone.

They had no vocal art;

I, I alone, of all the natural choir,
Knew what song was, and felt a poet's fire
Deep in my heart.

Yet I alone was dumb.

Only to me the gates of song were shut.
My poet soul rang high with music, but
It wouldn't come.

So loud his voice had grown that, when he paused,
Nursing his royal ire, methought it seemed

To make the stillness deeper than before,
Which struck upon his sense. For he looked round
As half in doubt, and then, unconscious yet,
Rose from the silence into fuller song:-

Now I resign my sovereignty and pride,

And seek new waters, whither none can say. Nature is hushed to awe; on every side Silence respects me as I pass away. O ripe occasion for one parting lay! O for one hour to shake my music free, To show that I can sing that were enough for me!

All vain! All vain! And my last chance will go.
E'en at this hour, when all the listening throng
Could hardly choose but hear, I lack the flow.
Filled with the memory of my lasting wrong
In disappointed pomp I pass along.

Down the slow stream in empty wrath I float,
Song in my heart and in my bosom song;

Song rising up and bubbling to my throat,

Song that would teach them song! And not one blessed note!

Higher and higher still his last notes pealed,
Fuller and fuller yet his music grew,

And, when he stopped, so swift a silence fell
That with craned neck he listened-"whither came
That strange, sweet melody?”—and all at once
He knew he had been singing all the time.
Then with a burst of triumph, round he turned,
And in one loud, glad ory announced his theme:-

Silence, each listening thing!

O tardy breeze, a little while delay!
Let every bird and brute

Be mute, be mute!

Peace, I command you! Hear me now, I say!
For I, your passing king

Will now oblige! I sing!

And, as he breathed, and for a moment hung,

Poised on the very ecstasy of song,

Over the meadows the breath of the evening came,
Crisping the water to ripples, and rustling the reeds,
Stirring the leaves of the hedges, and waking the woods,
And, in a flash, with vivid suddenness,

Nature gave tongue. The quickened cow replaced
Her frugal oud, and with complacent moo
Commenced her vespers. From the terraced lawn

The irritating peacock shrilled May-oh ;

The garden, with the wandering guinea-fowl,
Echoed, Come back, in mockery. At the farm

Ducks quacked, hens clucked, pigs grunted, and dogs barked.
And, as defying all things to compete,

With ribald intake the stentorian ass