Are altered, you would say. I know it well.
My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud,
Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow.
The image that my mirror gives me back
I scarce believe my own--so pale and worn.
Would you have known me had we met by chance?

GODFREY.
Ay, ay--among a million--if you spoke.
There's the old touch of kindness in your voice;
And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out
Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore.
Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age
May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.

MARGRAVE.
Thank Heaven 'tis so!--But you are little changed,
Save the maturing touch that manhood brings
When health and strength have won the victory,
And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!

GODFREY.
My lot has been amid the wild, fresh scenes
Of Nature's wide domain; where all is free.
Life seems t' inhale the vigorous breath required
To struggle with the elements around,
And thus keeps Time at bay. Like good old Boone,
The patriarch hunter, in the forest wilds
I've found that God supplied, and healed, and blessed.
Men live too fast in cities.