Now Time's big silent, solemn billow Rolls quietly on from year to year: Don Pedro lies on his green pillow, With love-lorn Clara sleeping near. But, ere he died, he did declare it His pleasure when his days were told, And Clara dead, with none to share it, Don William should heir all his gold. Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him His long-lost Marjory to his arms? Nay, would it wake and bring before him One only of her envied charms? No, it might cause another courtship, A love he could not now control: Great Mammon lured him to his worship, And lorded in his inmost soul. What though ten years away had stolen? 'Twas not to him all weary time, Who every day was pleased to roll in The tempting Mammon's golden shrine. But when he laid him on his pillow, His fancy sought the farthest east, And conjured up some lonely willow That waved o'er her he loved the best. Change still--a passion changed to pity! No other solace would he have-- A wish to see his native city, And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave. To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie, A hermit there to live and dwell in, Then sleep beside his Marjorie. VI. Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted This hermit waft to yonder shore, From which for sordid gold he parted Ten weary years and one before. Ho! there's the pier where last he left her, That dear, loved one, to weep alone, And for that love of gold bereft her Of all the pleasures she could own. He's now within the ancient borough! He sought the well-known White Horse Inn, And there he laid him down in sorrow, Some strengthening confidence to win; Then up the street, with none to greet him, He held his sad and sorrowing way, When lo! who should be there to meet him But Friar John?--who slunk away. Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie-- The window where with mirthful feeling He tap't the sign to Marjorie. He sought the lobby dark and narrow, Groped gently for the well-known door, Where he might hear of his winsome marrow, Who died there many years before. He drew the latch, and quietly entered; There some one spinning merrilie! A faltering question then he ventured: "My name, kind sir, is Marjorie." "Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling, And sank upon a crazy chair, And tried to trace a strange resembling In her who sat beside him there. A maiden she still young and buxom, Nor change but what ten years may bring, Her hair still of the glossy flaxen, Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing. He traced the lines, he knew each feature Of all her still unfaded charms; And now this long lost, worshipped creature Is locked fast in his loving arms.