Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.
To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.
Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross—
Death’s waving garland there.