THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
303 
On my broad back, my cygnet brood 
Securely cross the treacherous flood ; 
The tender down that clothes my breast, 
Shields Delia from the biting gale. 
My stately form, and snowy crest, 
Through ages grace the poets' tale ; 
And they have sung that my last sigh 
Is one long note of melody ! 
Thus my own requiem I sing, 
And the fair quills that arm my wing 
Inscribe for me an elegy ! 
THE WATER-FOWL. 
Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. 
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 
Vainly the fowler^s eye. 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
Thy figure floats along. 
