The immortal swan that did her life deplore.

Over her hung a canopy of state, Not of rich tissue, nor of spangled gold, But of a substance, though not animate, Yet of a heavenly and spiritual mould, That only eyes of spirits might behold.

The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse.

Those who have high thoughts are ever striving; they are not happy to remain in the same place. Like swans that leave their lake and rise into the air, they leave their home and fly for a higher home.

The swan on still St. Mary's lake Float double, swan and shadow!

The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.