Its golden eye in meekness toward its God;
The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink;
The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits,
For the returning tide to line the shore
With food well-suited to his groveling taste;
And o’er the bosom of the widening stream,
The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing.
—
Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye,
The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread,