ABSTRACT
A silent stream winds darkly through the shade, And slowly gains the Tigris, where 'tis lost;
By a forgotten prince, of old, 'twas made, And, in its course, mil many a fragment crost
Of marble fairly carved; and by its side Her golden dust the flaunting lotos threw
O'er her white sisters, throned upon the tide, And queen of every flower that loves perpetual dew.
