No Lordly home, no bed of state!
But on a pallet, clean and low,
They hear, unmov’d, the wild winds blow,
And though they ne’er another spring may see,
The Shepherd, and his Dog, are chearful company.
THE
FUGITIVE.
Oft have I seen yon Solitary Man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow
Sits melancholy, mark’d with decent pride,
As it would fly the busy, taunting world,