Nor to him its lustre owed.
Up the steep of Zion’s hill
Rose a being brighter still.
Silvery white the garb she wore,
And a cross of flowers she bore;
From vulgar gaze her charms, amid
A dark, enshrining mask, she hid,
Lighted up like midnight skies
With the splendor of her eyes;
Her dainty feet, with sandals shod,