LXXX.

Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand years, Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept; Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears And kneeling votaries on their marble kept! Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb! And you, ye dead!--for in that faith ye slept, Whose weight had grown a mountain’s on my heart, Which could not _there_ be loosed. I turn’d me to depart.