His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead His tender smiles, Love's day-dawn on his Lips That put on such heavenly spiritual light At the same moment in his steadfast eyes/ Were virtue's native crest, the innocent Soul's Unconscious meek Self-heraldry -- to man Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel -- He suffered, nor complain'd; tho' oft, with tears, He mourn'd the oppression of his helpless Brethren, -- And sometimes with a deeper, holier grief Mourn'd for the oppressor: but that in Sabbath Hours -- a solemn grief, That like a Cloud at sunset, Was but the veil of inward meditation, Pierc'd thro' And saturate with the intellectual rays, it soften'd. |