WE do not forget thy beauty—all the grace
Of thy most perfect shape arrests us not,
Save to enhance most melancholy thought—
Thou saddest relic of thy god-like race,
Fit emblem of thy country—gyves in place
Of garlands, a mournful tenderness is wrought
A'through thy frame, that whatso'er thy lot
Shall keep thy spirit holy as thy face.
I had not looked upon thee had a line
Breathed of the myrtle goddess of thy clime,
But such a sinless, meek rebuke is thine,
That thy mute purity abashes crime.
Thou art become a soul, sweet marble life,
A pleader for the good, not knowing evil strife.