With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool;
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.’
O Patric! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,