And thence in triumph to the shore is borne,
A prize that well rewards a day of toil.
Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite,
Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring,
Or o’er the commons with a bound and shout,
Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch.
Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night
Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep.
Bearing his hazel wand of curious form,
The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth,