With pensive grace the melancholy Swan

Mourns o’er the tomb of luckless Phaëton;

On grassy banks the weeping poplars wave,

And guard with tender care the wat’ry grave.

Would that I might, should I too proudly claim

An Heav’nly parent, or a Godlike fame,

When flown too high, and dash’d to depths below,

Receive such tribute as a Cygnus’ woe!

The faithful bird, that dumbly floats along,

Sighs all the deeper for his want of song.