When he had ascended the hill, his eye took a wider range. The more
distant and picturesque part of the country lay before him. "Ay!" said
he in a soliloquy, "Lord bless us, how sthrange is this world!--an'
what poor crathurs are men! There's the dark mountains, the hills, the
rivers, an' the green glens, all the same; an' nothin' else a'most but's
changed! The very song of that blackbird, in the thorn-bushes an' hazels
below me, is like the voice of an ould friend to my ears. Och, indeed,
hardly that, for even the voice of man changes; but that song is the
same as I heard it for the best part o' my life. That mornin' star,
too, is the same bright crathur up there that it ever was! God help
us! Hardly any thing changes but man, an' he seems to think that he
can never change; if one is to judge by his thoughtlessness, folly, an'
wickedness!"
A smaller hill, around the base of which went the same imperfect road
that crossed the glen of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing the
grave-yard to which he was about to extend his walk. To this road he
directed his steps. On reaching it he looked, still with a strong memory
of former times, to the glen in which his children, himself, and his
ancestors had all, during their day, played in the happy thoughtlessness
of childhood and youth. But the dark and ragged house jarred upon his
feelings.
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