O power of beauty on a woman's brow!
What strength is like to thine for good or ill?
Who dares attempt thine awful throne to fill
When Death's wind scatters all thy blossom'd bough
And strength and sweetness both have passed away?
O what a power has hell with such fair face
When foul ambition goads thee in the race
That drives from God's calm voice and guiding ray!
Do men now give thee hate, or still does love
Retain them, as when on thy quiet throne
The angels held thee scarce a breath apart?—
'Tis piteous hatred now men's passions move
That should to an imperial love have grown
Led captive by the strength of manly heart.