Sorrow and sin have worked their will br For years upon your sovereign face, br And yet it keeps a faded trace br Of its unequalled beauty still, br As ruined sanctuaries hold br A crumbled trace of perfect mould br In shrines which saints no longer fill. br br I knew you in your splendid morn, br Oh, how imperiously sweet! br I bowed and worshipped at your feet, br And you received my love with scorn. br Now I scorn you. It is a change, br When I consider it, how strange br That you, not I, should be forlorn.