Little song, since thou wert born In the Reformation morn, How much great has past away, Shattered or by slow decay! Stately piles in ruins crumbled, Lordly houses lost or humbled. Thrones and realms in darkness hurled, Noble flags forever furled, Wisest schemes by statesmen spun, Time has seen them one by one Like the leaves of autumn fall— A little song outlives them all. There were mighty scholars then With the slow, laborious pen Piling up their works of learning, Men of solid, deep discerning, Widely famous as they taught Systems of connected thought, Destined for all future ages; Now the cobweb binds their pages, All unread their volumes lie Mouldering so peaceably, Coffined thoughts of coffined men. Never more to stir again In the passion and the strife, In the fleeting forms of life; All their force and meaning gone As the stream of thought flows on. Art thou weary, little song, Flying through the world so long? Canst thou on thy fairy pinions Cleave the future’s dark dominions? And with music soft and clear Charm the yet unfashioned ear, Mingling with the things unborn When perchance another morn Great as that which gave thee birth Dawns upon the changing earth? It may be so, for all around With a heavy crashing sound Like the ice of polar seas Melting in the summer breeze, Signs of change are gathering fast, Nations breaking with their past. The pulse of thought is beating quicker, The lamp of faith begins to flicker, The ancient reverence decays With forms and types of other days; And old beliefs grow faint and few As knowledge moulds the world anew, And scatters far and wide the seeds Of other hopes and other creeds; And all in vain we seek to trace The fortunes of the coming race, Some with fear and some with hope, None can cast its horoscope. Vap’rous lamp or rising star, Many a light is seen afar, And dim shapeless figures loom All around us in the gloom— Forces that may rise and reign As the old ideals wane. Landmarks of the human mind, One by one are left behind, And a subtle change is wrought In the mould and cast of thought, Modes of reasoning pass away, Types of beauty lose their sway, Creeds and causes that have made Many noble lives, must fade; And the words that thrilled of old Now seem hueless, dead, and cold; Fancy’s rainbow tints are flying, Thoughts, like men, are slowly dying; All things perish, and the strongest Often do not last the longest; The stately ship is seen no more, The fragile skiff attains the shore; And while the great and wise decay, And all their trophies pass away, Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme Still floats above the wrecks of time.