Rachel

WHEN Memnon’s sculptured form the god of day

Touched from the orient gate with glance of fire,

As from the golden harps that seraphs play—

Burst heavenly music from that silent lyre.

Thus caught the chiselled grace of ancient art

Life from your touch, and beauty breathing soul;

Thus woke to startled life the panting heart

That ne’er before knew passion’s wild control,

Woke to the light of grace and love and power

That ever holds enshrined your honored name.

What garland, woven in the Muses’ bower,

Can match the meed of such a glorious fame?

Queen of the realm of passion and of thought,

What victor monarch’s crown is with such gems enwrought.