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 n't remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I'm changed, so changed since I was here —
“O tempora mutantur!”
The Angel's not much altered since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honeymoon!
I recollect it down to e'en
The shape of this decanter,—
We've since been both much put about —
“O tempora mutantur!”
Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vowed her Love was very fair —
I see I'm very plain.
And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo:
‘ 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 scratched 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 wanderer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It might be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;—
I wish the times would change their cry
Of “tempora mutantur.”