“O cruel Time! O tyrant Time!
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme,
The flowing waves of Love sublime,
In bitter passage freezes.
I only see the scrambling goat,
The lotos on the water float,
While an old shepherd with an oat
Pipes to the autumn breezes.”

Mr M. Collins.

Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
Receive me with a grin:
They surely can’t remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m chang’d, so chang’d since I was here—
“O tempora mutantur!”

The Angel’s not much alter’d since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e’en
The shape of this decanter.
We’ve since been both much put about—
“O tempora mutantur!”

Aye, there’s the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow’d her Love was very fair—
I see I’m very plain.
And there’s that daub of Prince Leboo,
’Twas Pamela’s fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
“O tempora mutantur!”

The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
On which I scratch’d her name.
Yes! there’s her tiny flourish still,
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
“O tempora mutantur!”

* * * * *

What brought this wand’rer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It may be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;—
How natural, how trite the cry,
“O tempora mutantur!”