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! thy sculptor's holiest thought in stone! Thee ere the purity of morning broke, Day after day he wrought with noiseless stroke, Pure as a Flower by silent Nature sown! And (I may guess unblamed) that starry crown Upon thy heavenly brow he fixed sublime In rapture caught—ere Fancy's self had time The happy thought to own or to disown. Here rule—yet in thy right, nor let the Earth Claim loveliness she never yet hath given; Not Hope art thou, still as the desert Palm Entranced at noon; Hope trembles—for her birth Is of the mutable. Thou art a child of Heaven, Not Hope, but Faith angelically calm.