Classic Poem

Like all true souls of noble birth,
Thou'rt made of purest porcelain earth,
And not of common clay;
Love, Truth, and Mercy made the mould
That did thy spirit's form enfold,
Upon its natal day.

Upon that form, with wondrous art,
By teeming brain and tender heart,
Rare flowers have painted been;
And, heedless of thy streaming tears,
Affliction's furnace, hot and fierce,
Has burnt the colours in.

Thus decked with tints that cannot fade,
“A vessel unto honour” made
My homely verse has shown thee;
To it all thirsting souls may come,
And all the lips that drink therefrom
Say: “Blessings be upon thee!”