Swept off by the tide of time and change.
These would’st thou mourn, go, trace the path,
The far wild road,
To some old hill where ruin hath
Its lone abode—
Where morn is sleeping, and dank dews weeping—
Where the grey moss grows on the lintel stone—
Where the raven haunts, and the wild weed flaunts,
And old remembrance broods alone:
There weep—for generous hearts dwelt there,