Where the stock-dove built its nest;
The rippling stream and the hermit’s cell,
Its green and shady crest.
The stately home ’neath the elms so tall,
The lawn with its cool bright turf;
The old peach tree by the garden wall,
Each has its own sweet worth.
For my head is bent with the weight of years,
As white as the falling snow;
My stream of life through this vale of tears