His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, To drink that dainty flood of music down-- His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs-- And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, His looks for envy of the charmed sense Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, Stung into pain by their own impotence, Distil enormous tears into the lake immense. XVII. Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird! Sweet was that midnight miracle of song, Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong-- Hinting a piteous tale--perchance how long Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, What time disguised thy leafy mates among-- And no eye knew what human love and ache Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break. XVIII. Therefore no poet will ungently touch The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such As human pain may wander through and through, Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue-- Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd, By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed, Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed? XIX. And now the winged song has scaled the height Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, And soon a little casement flashing bright Widens self-open'd into the cool air-- That music like a bird may enter there And soothe the captive in his stony cage; For there is nought of grief, or painful care, But plaintive song may happily engage From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage. XX. And forth into the light, small and remote, A creature, like the fair son of a king, Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat Against the silver moonlight glistening, And leans upon his white hand listening To that sweet music that with tenderer tone Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan, Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone! XXI. And while he listens, the mysterious song, Woven with timid particles of speech. Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach The secrets of true love,--that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one, Like blended streams that make one music as they run. XXII. "Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,--" "Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high--" "Alas! our lips are held so far apart, Thy words come faint,--they have so far to fly!--" "If I may only shun that serpent-eye,--" "Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;--" "Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!--" "Alas, alas! that word has made me weep! For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!" XXIII.