In every line and feature of the face;
The air majestic, and the simple grace
Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal,
All that the classic chisel would reveal.
In thy supremacy thou stand’st sublime,
Bidding defiance to the scythe of time!
The thought of thee is like the breath of morn,
Which whispers gently through the blooming trees;
Like music o’er the sparkling waters borne,