With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.