And through his plumes with a noise of wind-blown flame Loud roared the air. From Leda’s lips a cry Broke, and she hid her face—she could not see him die, Her lovely, hapless swan. Ah, had she heard, Even as the eagle hurtled past, the word That treacherous pair exchanged. “Peace,” cried the swan; “Peace, daughter. All my strength will soon be gone, Wasted in tedious flying, ere I come Where my desire hath set its only home.” “Go,” said the eagle, “I have played my part, Roused pity for your plight in Leda’s heart (Pity the mother of voluptuousness). Go, father Jove; be happy; for success Attends this moment.” On the queen’s numbed sense Fell a glad shout that ended sick suspense, Bidding her lift once more towards the light Her eyes, by pity closed against a sight Of blood and death—her eyes, how happy now To see the swan still safe, while far below, Brought by the force of his eluded stroke So near to earth that with his wings he woke A gust whose sudden silvery motion stirred The meadow grass, struggled the sombre bird Of rage and rapine. Loud his scream and hoarse With baffled fury as he urged his course Upwards again on threshing pinions wide. But the fair swan, not daring to abide This last assault, dropped with the speed of fear Towards the river. Like a winged spear, Outstretching his long neck, rigid and straight, Aimed at where Leda on the bank did wait With open arms and kind, uplifted eyes And voice of tender pity, down he flies. Nearer, nearer, terribly swift, he sped Directly at the queen; then widely spread Resisting wings, and breaking his descent ’Gainst his own wind, all speed and fury spent, The great swan fluttered slowly down to rest And sweet security on Leda’s breast. Menacingly the eagle wheeled above her; But Leda, like a noble-hearted lover Keeping his child-beloved from tyrannous harm, Stood o’er the swan and, with one slender arm Imperiously lifted, waved away The savage foe, still hungry for his prey. Baffled at last, he mounted out of sight And the sky was void—save for a single white Swan’s feather moulted from a harassed wing That down, down, with a rhythmic balancing From side to side dropped sleeping on the air. Down, slowly down over that dazzling pair, Whose different grace in union was a birth Of unimagined beauty on the earth: So lovely that the maidens standing round Dared scarcely look. Couched on the flowery ground Young Leda lay, and to her side did press The swan’s proud-arching opulent loveliness, Stroking the snow-soft plumage of his breast With fingers slowly drawn, themselves caressed By the warm softness where they lingered, loth To break away. Sometimes against their growth Ruffling the feathers inlaid like little scales On his sleek neck, the pointed finger-nails Rasped on the warm, dry, puckered skin beneath;