Since last I saw that countenance so mild, <br />Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care, <br />Had gently touched, methought, some features there; <br />Yet looked the man as placid as a child, <br />And the same voice,--whilst mingled with the throng, <br />Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,-- <br />That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled! <br />That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed <br />At parting,--wheresoe'er our various way, <br />In this great world,--but from the banks of Tweed, <br />As slowly sink the shades of eventide, <br />Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed, <br />Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say, <br />A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-sir-walter-scott-2/
