VII.

When darkens the gloaming Oh, scant is their cheer! All benumb'd is their song in The hedge they are thronging, And for shelter still longing, The mortar[92] they tear; Ever noisily, noisily Squealing their care.

The running stream's chieftain[93] Is trailing to land, So flabby, so grimy, So sickly, so slimy,-- The spots of his prime he Has rusted with sand; Crook-snouted his crest is That taper'd so grand.