But where is it writ, she should please us all?
Some rather her creation in pastel,
Gold hung and lighted in a marbled hall.
Yet others liken her be cast in stone:
Medusa browed, eyes locked in stiff embrace,
Like Charlemagne, brave warrior of Cologne,
From whom no tear did stain his granite face.
O! o’er time’s raging flood how she hath changed.
Her veil of beauty stripped she sullen waits,
As wrathful mobs decry her now deranged,
And seek to bind her to some righteous place.
Though long as she resists this seething tide,
She will endure, lay claim her shattered pride.