"O passing beautiful—in this wild spot Temples, and tombs, and dwellings,—all forgot! One sea of sunlight far around them spread, And skies of sapphire mantling overhead. They seem no work of man’s creative hand, Where Labour wrought as wayward Fancy plann’d; But from the rock as if by magic grown, Eternal—silent—beautiful—alone! Not virgin white—like that old Doric shrine Where once Athena held her rites divine: Not saintly grey—like many a minster fane That crowns the hill, or sanctifies the plain: But rosy-red,—as if the blush of dawn Which first beheld them were not yet withdrawn: The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, Which men call’d old two thousand years ago! Match me such marvel, save in Eastern clime,— A rose-red city—‘half as old as Time!’"