VII.

Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day, Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast, A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, Catching brief splendour from the purple west? So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone; And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, Blending her rites with thine--while yet afar Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.