They that give voice to visions—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!—One of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose
Of his pale features half o'eraw'd the mind,
And imaged forth a soul, whose joys and woes
Were of a loftier stamp than aught assign'd
Yes!—what was earth to him, whose spirit pass'd
Time's utmost bounds?—on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence?—Majesty and might
Were in his dreams;—for him the veil of light
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th' unutterably bright
Was rais'd!—to him, in fearful splendour shown,
