His wing on the wind, his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line!"
"What is that, mother?"
"The swan, my love—
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;