It seemed no work of Man's creative hand
By labour wrought, as wavering fancy planned
But from the rock as if by magic grown
Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine
Where erst Athena held her rites divine
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane
That crowns the hill and consecrates the plain
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn
That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe
Which Man deemed old two thousand years ago
(Not virgin-white)
Match me such marvel save in Eastern clime
(Like that old Doric shrine)
A rose-red city half as old as time