"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?
VII.
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno[528] in the summer, to a shallow,