"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crowns the hill and consecrates the plain; But rose-red as if the blush of dawn, That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn; The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, Which Man deemed old two thousand years ago.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."