"It seems no work of Man's creative hand,
by labour wrought as wavering fancy planned;
But from the rock as if by magic grown,eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,where erst Athena held her rites divine;
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,that crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe,which Man deemed old two thousand years ago,
match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,a rose-red city half as old as time."