But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow?
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes;
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish—all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains,