He comes at last in sudden loneliness,

And whence they know not, why they need not guess;

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er

Not that he came, but came not long before:

No train is his beyond a single page,

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.

Years had rolled on, and fast they speed away

To those that wander as to those that stay; 50

But lack of tidings from another clime

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem

The present dubious, or the past a dream.

He lives, nor yet is past his Manhood's prime,

Though seared by toil, and something touched by Time;

His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,

Might be untaught him by his varied lot;

Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name

Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 60

His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins  ¹¹

No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;

And such, if not yet hardened in their course,

Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse.