That form or face for a decade,
Though time had shorn his locks, had made
His form another's, flow'd between
Their lives like some uncompass'd sea,
Yet still he knew him as before.
He pursed his lips, and silently
He turn'd and sought his cabin's door.
Ay! they have come, the sun-brown'd men,
To beard old Morgan in his den.
It matters little who they are,