Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart's

Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush red

Thro' browning summer meadows to catch the sun's crimsoning head,

You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wife

With one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new

Is prized like the early primrose. Then shake his right hand, in

The old man fails never to tell you: 'You've got the French

How low when angels fall their black descent,

(Editor：power)