Book 7 — THE EAGLE AND THE SWAN.

THE SWAN. My tranquil life is passed the waves among, Light ripples tracing as I glide along, And the scarce ruffled tide, as in a glass, Reflects my form unaltered as I pass! THE EAGLE. In the clefts of the rocks my wild dwelling I form, I sail through the air on the wings of the storm, 'Mid dangers and combats I dart on my prey, And trust the bold pinion that bears me away! THE SWAN. Won by the charm of Phœbus, in the wave Of heavenly harmony I dare to lave, Couched at his feet, I listen to the lays, In Tempè's vale, that echo to his praise! THE EAGLE. I perch at the right hand of Jove on his throne, And the thunderbolt launch when his signal is shown, And my heavy wings droop, when in slumber I lie, O'er the sceptre that sways the wide earth from on high! THE SWAN. Me charms the heaven's blue arch, serene and bland, And odorous flowers attract me to the land While basking in the sun's departing beams, I stretch my white wings o'er the purpled streams! THE EAGLE. I exult in the tempest, triumphant and bold, When the oaks of the forest it rends from their hold, I demand of the thunder—the spheres when it shakes— If, like me, a wild joy in destruction it takes! THE SWAN. Oft in the glassy tide the stars I view, And that blue heav'n the waves give back anew. And dim regret recalls me to the home In higher spheres, reluctant whence I roam! THE EAGLE. With joy, from the hour that my young life begun, I have soared to the skies—I have gazed on the sun. I can not stoop down to the dust of the earth— Allied to the gods, I exult in my birth! THE SWAN. When a calm death succeeds to tranquil life, Its links detaching without pain or strife, And to my voice restores its primal power, Its dying tones shall hail the solemn hour! THE EAGLE. The soul, like the phoenix, springs forth from the pyre, All free and unvailed, to the skies to aspire, To hail the bright vision that bursts on its view, And its youth at the dark torch of death to renew!