The heart of man is everywhere the same:
In distant Savoy roamed we long ago
With one to guide us o'er the mountain snow;
Scarce had we power in foreign tongue to frame
Unhindered converse; often did he name
Things strange to us, and dwell, in accents slow,
On wayside views, or aught we asked to know,
That we his skill in guidance might not blame.
Yet is there written all that old man's life
Deep on our memory; his cottage--hearth
Peopled with joy--his solitude and dearth
When God called thence the mother and the wife;
And how he looked, and said, ''I'll trust Him yet:''
All these are things which we can ne'er forget.