The Swan

Look at the swan! how still he goes!
His neck and breast like silver gleam;
He seems majestic as he rows;
The glory of the lonely stream.

There is a glory in the war,
A glory when the warrior wears
(His visage marked with many a scar)
The laurel wet with human tears.

Such scenes no glory can impart,
With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,
Like that which fills his silent heart
Who walks with God in quietude.