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Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps
Lo! Priestley there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage,395
Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen
A childish pang of impotent regret
Hath thrill'd my heart. Him from his native land
Statesmen blood-stain'd and Priests idolatrous
By dark lies mad'ning the blind multitude 400
Drove with vain hate: calm, pitying he retir'd,
And mus'd expectant on these promis'd years.
O Years! the blest preeminence of Saints!
Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze
Bright as what glories of the jasper throne405
Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes
Of Spirits adoring! Ye, blest Years! must end,
And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange!
M 3
