By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs
Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy
Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs
All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;
But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,
Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,
Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam
As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak
Are images of manhood’s pride and fame
That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,