LXXVI.
But oh! what words the vision may portray,
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine?
There stands thy goddess, robed in war’s array,
Supremely glorious, awfully divine!
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought;
And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought—
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose—
All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws.