Page:Friendship's Offering 1825.pdf/4

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The change that time has made; the same clear stream Darkens beneath the willow, the red sun Lights the same colours in the window pane; And there the cottage, where the old man dwelt Looking the same, though he dwells there no more. Alas! how much the change that marks the course Of time, is only in man's heart and works! There is such change in cities; towers arise, And halls and palaces, and the next day Some other vanity fills up the scene. But in the quiet valleys, where the hind Lives in the cottage, follows at the plough, Which were his father's, time will scarcely leave A vestige of his flight. Yet, even here One saddest change has been; that aged man, Propping his feeble steps by the white rail Before the workhouse, he is old and blind, And the rail is at once support and guide. His eyes have lost their sight with many tears: The child he loved, led step by step to guilt, Had been an outcast from his native land, For seven long years. One morning he had crept By his accustomed path, rejoic’d to feel The warmth of summer light upon his brow, And near his side pass’d a pale haggard man, Who turn'd to gaze upon him: 'twas his child! My Father! groan'd the wanderer, and hid His ghastly face within his hands; the voice Pierced to the old man's heart—he knew his son— He trembled, and the wretched one sprang forth And caught him in his arms,—but he was dead! Next day, a corpse was seen upon the river: They took the body, but they did not dare To lay the guilty where the innocent Sleep their last holy slumber: it was laid In common earth, where careless feet might tread;— It is this mound.