Foremost in a gazing group bends an aged chief, who has come out to see one gala day more before he descends to the land of shadows. He erects his tall stature, but not in pride, and half forgets the tufted wand that has long sustained his tottering years. He thinks not of the feathered mantle which falls from his shoulders, or the badges of rank which glitter on his breast. His eyes are on a group of children wildly at play. Fourscore summers have shed their vernal honors since he was young as they, and yet their glee this day makes his pulses fly as if he were again a child. He watches their light footsteps, their laughing eyes, and timid hands as they garland with flowers the arching horns of the old patriarch of his flock.
“A band of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers;
While peaceful as if still an unweaned lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head majestically tame,
Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers
His brow as if in act to butt, and then,
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.”