He counts each tedious hour an age;
And all his cry, &c.
When in his arms his infant train,
Their little woes and wants explain,
The trickling tear, and sigh supprest,
Betray the anguish of his breast:
’Till like the Starling in his cage,
His throbbing bosom bursts with rage;
And all his cry, &c.
Sometimes in dreams he wings his flight,