Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,
But found not pity when it erred no more.
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
The unfeeling proud one looks—and passes by,
Condemned on Penury’s barren path to roam,
Scorned by the world, and left without a home—
Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet’s hawthorn-scented way,
Where, round the cot’s romantic glade, are seen
The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green,