Than words that soothe her:
And from her arch’d brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch’d it?
Ha’ you mark’d but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch’d it?
Ha’ you felt the wool of beaver?