 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
275
ADDRESS TO THE SWAN.
“Dulcia defoctâ modulatur carmina linguâ,
Cantatur cygnus funeris ipse sui.”
Ovid.
Cantatur cygnus funeris ipse sui.”
Ovid.
Stately bird! from lake and bay
Fled a grace and charm away,
When Improvement's thrilling call
Pierced the forest's leafy hall
From blue waters, once thine own,
Scaring thee to haunts more lone.
Fled a grace and charm away,
When Improvement's thrilling call
Pierced the forest's leafy hall
From blue waters, once thine own,
Scaring thee to haunts more lone.
Reeds and rushes fringe the shore,
But they hide thy nest no more;
Water-lilies, without stain,
Decorate thine old domain,
But thy soft and rounded breast
In a purer white was drest.
But they hide thy nest no more;
Water-lilies, without stain,
Decorate thine old domain,
But thy soft and rounded breast
In a purer white was drest.
Driven forth by winter cold
From the polar wastes of old,
Music from the sky would fall,
Louder than a battle-call,
As thy pinion, peerless swan!
Bore thee, in thy beauty, on.
From the polar wastes of old,
Music from the sky would fall,
Louder than a battle-call,
As thy pinion, peerless swan!
Bore thee, in thy beauty, on.
Never listened mortal ear
To a voice more full and clear,
Not unlike in depth of tone
Blast of conch-shell loudly blown,
Or a far-off trumpet wail
Modulated by the gale.
To a voice more full and clear,
Not unlike in depth of tone
Blast of conch-shell loudly blown,
Or a far-off trumpet wail
Modulated by the gale.
The wild red-man with delight
Heard that challenge shrill at night,
As, revealed by moonlight fair,
Sped thy form through fields of air;
Vans of silver, broad and strong,
Southward wafting thee along.
Heard that challenge shrill at night,
276
Sped thy form through fields of air;
Vans of silver, broad and strong,
Southward wafting thee along.
Prized by chief and forest king
Was the plumage of thy wing;
On the head of Indian maid
Low winds with thy feathers played,
And thy down, so rich and warm,
Edged the robe that wrapped her form.
Was the plumage of thy wing;
On the head of Indian maid
Low winds with thy feathers played,
And thy down, so rich and warm,
Edged the robe that wrapped her form.
Age, that cripples mortal power,
Wasting pile, and crumbling tower,
Sullies not thy vesture white,
Or brings darkness to thy sight,
Though a century may have fled
Since thy first wing-quill was shed.
Wasting pile, and crumbling tower,
Sullies not thy vesture white,
Or brings darkness to thy sight,
Though a century may have fled
Since thy first wing-quill was shed.
Purer type the fabling mind
Grace to picture cannot find,
And when Art on canvas drew
Venus, born of ocean blue,
Yoked to chariot of the queen
Swans, with arching neck, were seen.
Grace to picture cannot find,
And when Art on canvas drew
Venus, born of ocean blue,
Yoked to chariot of the queen
Swans, with arching neck, were seen.
Ovid, in his sweetest verse,
Loved thy praises to rehearse;
Flaccus, in his polished lay,
Tribute unto thee did pay,
And in Plato's mighty tome
Ever thou wilt find a home.
Loved thy praises to rehearse;
Flaccus, in his polished lay,
Tribute unto thee did pay,
And in Plato's mighty tome
Ever thou wilt find a home.
Still would I believer be
In the tale they tell of thee—
Breathing in the hour of death
Music with thy latest breath;
Tuning, with a failing tongue,
Strains the sweetest ever sung.
In the tale they tell of thee—
Breathing in the hour of death
Music with thy latest breath;
Tuning, with a failing tongue,
Strains the sweetest ever sung.
277
Blest may merry England be,
For her statutes guarded thee;
Those who soiled thy plume with gore
Branded mark of felon bore,
And admiring lords and dames
Viewed thee sailing on the Thames.
For her statutes guarded thee;
Those who soiled thy plume with gore
Branded mark of felon bore,
And admiring lords and dames
Viewed thee sailing on the Thames.
“Rare old Ben” could find no name
Worthy of a Shakespeare's fame
But thine own, majestic bird!
Now a consecrated word
With unmatched poetic lore
Intertwined for evermore.
Worthy of a Shakespeare's fame
But thine own, majestic bird!
Now a consecrated word
With unmatched poetic lore
Intertwined for evermore.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |