Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
Nor mov’d by gold—nor to be mov’d by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.