And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out
Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore.
Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age
May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.
MARGRAVE.
Thank Heaven 'tis so!—But you are little changed,
Save the maturing touch that manhood brings
When health and strength have won the victory,
And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!
GODFREY.