The gulf of time, the waves of change.
Long stood the Pilgrim here at gaze,
As lost in thought of antique days,
As far his searching eyes could scan
Beneath the age-worn arches’ span.
He marked each age’s builded pile
Loom dimly down the endless aisle,
Where shone the winding waters’ thread,
A wandering life among the dead,
Until his sight no more could trace