CLXV.

Which gathers shadow--substance--life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud-- And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glowed, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allowed To hover on the verge of darkness--rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,