Then memory, like a lamp of crystalline,
The pencil has with painted colours decked,
Although by dust bedimmed, with scars beflecked;
Place but within its heart a little light,
With freshness of its colours eyes are lured,
On palace walls yet gleaming fair and bright,
Lovely, though yet with dusty cloud obscured.
O could I but this fire of mine impart
To all my hearers’ breasts, the shapes upraise
Of those dead times, and reach the very heart