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.