The little hedgerow birds, 
That peck along the roads, 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.