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Prester John. It likes me not that mortal hands have sounded Each inlet of the Hyperborean main, And tracked and traced and mapped the sinuous bends Of Niger's weird unfathomable stream. All this is palpable too much, and breathes Of knowledge overstrained and scanty faith — Sweeter to me the gloom of ancient days, Wherein half glimpses distantly revealed Of old things beautiful were seen — the gloom Dappled with roseate and bewitching light, As Heaven's livery, when gold-eyed Morn Triumphant thunders at the massy gate Of black-browed Night — sweeter the strains that lulled The ear with quaint bright legends of Cathay, B
