No beasts she saw, nor fowl; nothing but lizards and beetles,

Has been thy meed for many thousand years;

Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,

Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester;-

His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse

Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls

Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays

Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.

A little onward ran the very stream