Fragment: His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead

His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
His tender smiles, Love's day-dawn on his lips,
Put on such heavenly, spiritual light,
At the same moment in his steadfast eye
Were Virtue's native crest, th' innocent soul's
Unconscious meek self-heraldry,--to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
He suffer'd nor complain'd;--though oft with tears
He mourn'd th' oppression of his helpless brethren,--
And sometimes with a deeper holier grief
Mourn'd for the oppressor--but this in sabbath hours--
A solemn grief, that like a cloud at sunset,
Was but the veil of inward meditation
Pierced thro' and saturate with the intellectual rays
It soften'd.