Classic Poem

("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)

Uprose the temple of my love
Sculptured with many a mystic theme,
All frail and fanciful above,
But pillared on a deep esteem.

It might have been a simpler plan,
And traced on more majestic lines;
But he that built it was a man
Of will unstrung, and vague designs;

Not worthy, though indeed he wrought
With reverence and a meek content,
To keep that presence: yet the thought
Is there, in frieze and pediment.

The trophied arms and treasured gold
Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand;
The shrine is bare, the altar cold,
But let the outer fabric stand.