THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK.
85
And ye, bright founts, that lie
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep—
—Sweet waters! I must die.
Will ye not send one tone
Of sorrow thro' the pines?—one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?
No, ever glad and free!
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.
But thou, sweet boon, too late
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song!
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong,
In the dark hour, of fate?
