The Escorial

This gorgeous sacred dome, — no pile profane, —
Whose glories leave the clouds of morn outdone,
Flouting the sun-rays, where in dazzling stone
The columns rise like giants from the plain,
Provokes no wrath from heaven, no jealous pain
In day's bright lord. The splendor but makes known
A temple reared to Spam's great martyred son
By the great king of ever-faithful Spain.
A great religion works this marvel rare.
Meet for the monarch, whose unquestioned sway
The new-found West and Eastern Indians own:
Stern Fate, be gentle: Time, the beauty spare
Of this eighth wonder; spare for many a day
In peaceful age our second Solomon.