Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
Receive me with a grin:
They surely can’ t remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’ m chang’ d, so chang’ d since I was here —
“O tempora mutantur!”
The Angel’ s not much alter’ d since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e’ en
The shape of this decanter.
We’ ve since been both much put about —
“O tempora mutantur!”
Aye, there’ s the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow’ d her Love was very fair —
I see I’ m very plain.
And there’ s that daub of Prince Leboo,
’ Twas Pamela’ s fond banter
To fancy it resembled me —
“O tempora mutantur!”
The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
On which I scratch’ d her name.
Yes! there’ s her tiny flourish still,
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one —
“O tempora mutantur!”
What brought this wand’ rer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It may be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;—
How natural, how trite the cry,
“O tempora mutantur!”