XC.

And calm’d I rose: but how the while had risen Morn’s orient sun, dissolving mist and shade! Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison, In the bright world such radiance might pervade? It fill’d the fane, it mantled the pale form Which rose before me through the pictured storm, Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array’d With life!--How hard to see thy race begun, And think man wakes to grief, wakening to _thee_, O Sun!