Classic Poem

On sped the seasons, and the forest-child
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While o'er her features stole, serenely mild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
Her modesty and simpleness and grace:
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve which nerved the Roman soul.