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.
