LXXIV.

’Tis a proud vision--that most regal pile Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle, Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light Develops on those walls the thousand dyes Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height, And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220] Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.