The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
THE SWAN. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
255
THE SWAN.
Majestic bird! who lov'st to glide
In all the plumid pomp of pride!
Who in the glassy stream all day
Pursu'st the bright pellucid way!
Why art thou, bird of splendid grace,
More favour'd than thy kindred race?
Why art thou form'd so wond'rous fair,
With downy breast, and pinions rare?
And wherefore, on the liquid way,
Dost thou enjoy superior sway?
In all the plumid pomp of pride!
Who in the glassy stream all day
Pursu'st the bright pellucid way!
Why art thou, bird of splendid grace,
More favour'd than thy kindred race?
Why art thou form'd so wond'rous fair,
With downy breast, and pinions rare?
And wherefore, on the liquid way,
Dost thou enjoy superior sway?
No song is thine, no thrilling note
Winds dulcet from thy beauteous throat;
No mazy flight thy wings essay
Along the burning plains of day!
No murm'ring cadence marks in thee
Love's soul-entrancing minstrelsey!
Thou canst not raise the eagle eye
To greet the sov'reign of the sky!
No sweetly social instinct sways
The tenour of thy placid days;
Man finds in thee no cheerful song
To lead his weary feet along;
No mild domestic friend to pour
Soft music thro' life's sombre hour:
For thou, to sullen pleasures prone,
Liv'st, proudly, for thyself alone!
Winds dulcet from thy beauteous throat;
No mazy flight thy wings essay
Along the burning plains of day!
256
Love's soul-entrancing minstrelsey!
Thou canst not raise the eagle eye
To greet the sov'reign of the sky!
No sweetly social instinct sways
The tenour of thy placid days;
Man finds in thee no cheerful song
To lead his weary feet along;
No mild domestic friend to pour
Soft music thro' life's sombre hour:
For thou, to sullen pleasures prone,
Liv'st, proudly, for thyself alone!
The lark, that soars on early wing,
And, soaring, loves his joy to sing;
The swallow, who to distant skies,
Allur'd by gentler zephyrs, flies;
The thrush, that twitters while the dawn
Spreads purpling lustre o'er the lawn,
Are richer far in pow'rs than thee,
With all thy vaunted majesty!
And, soaring, loves his joy to sing;
The swallow, who to distant skies,
Allur'd by gentler zephyrs, flies;
The thrush, that twitters while the dawn
Spreads purpling lustre o'er the lawn,
Are richer far in pow'rs than thee,
With all thy vaunted majesty!
Then what avails thy lofty crest?
What all the down that clothes thy breast?
What thy slow-gliding haughty grace,
That scarcely moves the lucid space?
Man finds in thee no soft control
To heal the pain-inflicted soul!
For outward beauty's pleasing pow'r
Charms only for its little hour;
And reason sickens when we find
A form without a kindred mind!
What all the down that clothes thy breast?
What thy slow-gliding haughty grace,
That scarcely moves the lucid space?
257
To heal the pain-inflicted soul!
For outward beauty's pleasing pow'r
Charms only for its little hour;
And reason sickens when we find
A form without a kindred mind!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |