All of pure gold, in furnace fire refined;
And never foot profane had near it trod,
And never image had been there enshrined;
But now a radiant idol claimed the place,
And took it with a rare and royal grace.
And the proud woman thrilled to its false glory,
And when the murmur of her own true soul
Told in low, lute-tones Love’s impassioned story,
She dreamed the music from that statue stole,
And knelt adoring at the silent shrine