LXXXV.

But was it not a thing to rise on death, With its remember’d light, that face of thine, Redeemer! dimm’d by this world’s misty breath, Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine? Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty! And the pale glory of the brow!--a shrine Where power sat veil’d, yet shedding softly round What told that _Thou_ couldst be but for a time uncrown’d!