She stood—a hill-ensceptred Queen,
The glory streaming from her;
While Heaven flashed her rays between,
And shed eternal summer.
The gates of morning opened wide
On sunny dome and steeple;
Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side
Thronged with a happy people;
And twilight’s drowsy, half closed eyes
Beheld that virgin splendour
Whose orbs were as her darkening skies,
And as her spirit, tender.
Girt with that strength, first-born of right,
Held fast by deeds of honour,
Her robe she wove with rays more bright
Than Heaven could rain upon her.
Footnote 3:
Written at the age of sixteen.
Where is that light—that citadel?
That robe with woof of glory?
She lost her virtue and she fell,
And only left her story.