Hope smiled when your nativity was cast,
Children of summer! Ye fresh flowers that brave
What summer here escapes not, the fierce wave,
And whole artillery of the western blast,
Battering the temple’s front, its long-drawn nave
Smiting, as if each moment were their last.
But ye, bright flowers, on frieze and architrave,
Survive, and once again the pile stands fast:
Calm as the universe, from specular towers
Of heaven contemplated by spirits pure
With mute astonishment, it stands sustained
Through every part in symmetry, to endure,
Unhurt, the assault of time with all his hours,
As the supreme Artificer ordained.