LXXXI.

I turn’d: what glimmer’d faintly on my sight-- Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow Seen through dissolving haze? The moon, the night, Had waned, and down pour’d in--gray, shadowy, slow, Yet dayspring still! A solemn hue it caught, Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught With stoles and draperies of imperial glow; And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone.