‘Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Thou agÈd carle so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it passed away?’

‘Know'st thou not me?’ the Deep Voice cried; ‘So long enjoyed, so often misused, Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused!

Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay.

Redeem mine hours—the space is brief— While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part for ever!’

Scott.