But soon they grow again and leave their nest.

"Oh!" saith the Psalmist, "that I had a dove's

Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!"

And who that recollects young years and loves,—

Though hoary now, and with a withering breast,

And palsied Fancy, which no longer roves

Beyond its dimmed eye's sphere,—but would much rather

Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?