LXVIII.

But high above that scene, in bright repose, And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, But all instinct with loftier being seems, Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams Of yore!--Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught, And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!