Zion[3]

She stood—a hill-ensceptred Queen, The glory streaming from her; While Heaven flashed her rays between, And shed eternal summer.

The gates of morning opened wide On sunny dome and steeple; Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side Thronged with a happy people;

And twilight’s drowsy, half closed eyes Beheld that virgin splendour Whose orbs were as her darkening skies, And as her spirit, tender.

Girt with that strength, first-born of right, Held fast by deeds of honour, Her robe she wove with rays more bright Than Heaven could rain upon her.

Footnote 3:

Written at the age of sixteen.

Where is that light—that citadel? That robe with woof of glory? She lost her virtue and she fell, And only left her story.