But soon they grow again and leave their nest.
“Oh!” saith the Psalmist, “that I had a dove’s
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!”
And who that recollects young years and loves—
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,
And palsied Fancy, which no longer roves
Beyond its dimmed eye’s sphere—but would much rather
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?