’Tis Manuel! and he knows my voice:
His tears, tho’ not his eyes, rejoice:
Reduc’d by age and loss of sight
To beggary and the parish mite,
That dog his only guide, he picks,
Groping in fear, those wretched sticks.
But soon will such small gleanings end.—
Thou, Needwood, wast the poor man’s friend!
Garden of Nature! on whose face
Contended fragrance, bloom, and grace;