To rob the raven’s ancient nest.
Their humble porch with honey’d flowers
The curling woodbine’s shade embowers;
From the small garden’s thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound:
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life’s golden prime.
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar,
As studious still calm peace to keep,