From purer elements whose light was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn,
What years on years, in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone,
Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed,
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo’s voice—the music of a dream,