No room remains for doubt; the question’s judged and cast.
The new-born black is borne in triumph by its kind;
The rosy-cheeked fair bantling’s claimed by Roman mind.
Until its birth the child’s a riddle to all men.
Who knows an unborn infant’s rare sage in this glen.20
Unless, mayhap, he see with light divine’s blest aid;
For this can penetrate through densest shell e’er made.
The life-conveying fluid’s colourless and clear;
But living men their various shades of colour bear.
The soul sustains complexions in our mortal frames,