By Joseph Wolf.

text from the plate


The Swan Wordsworth Fair is the Swan, whose majesty prevailing O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake, Bears him on while proudly sailing, He leaves behind a moon-illumin'd wake: Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve Fashions his neck into a goodly curve, An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings or whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs To which, on some unruffled morning, clings A flaky weight of winter's purest snows! Behold! as with a gushing impulse, heaves That downy prow, and softly cleaves The mirror of the crystal flood, Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, And pendant rocks, where'er, in gliding state, Winds the mute creature without visible mate Or rival, save the Queen of night, Showering down a silver light, From heaven, upon her chosen favorite.