. . . Who peopled all the city streets,
A hundred years ago?
Who tilled the church with faces meek
A hundred years ago?
The sneering tale
Of sister frail,
The plot that work'd
A brother's hurt—
Where, O where, are plots and sneers.
The poor man's hopes, the rich man's fears,
That lived so long ago ?
Where are the graves where dead men slept,
A hundred years ago ?
Who when they were living, wept
A hundred years ago ?
By other men that knew not them
Their lands are tilled, their graves are filled
Yet nature then was just as gay,
And bright the sunshine as to-day,
A hundred years ago.
