CXXI.

Oh, Love! no habitant of earth thou art--[on] An unseen Seraph, we believe in thee,-- A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,-- But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;[499] The mind hath made thee, as it peopled Heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquenched soul--parched--wearied--wrung--and riven.