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A Sketch
The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road,
regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his
step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His
look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does
not move with pain, but moves
With thought. -He is
insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by
whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long
patience hath such mild composure given
That patience
now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is
by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young
behold
With envy what the Old Man hardly feels.
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