VII.
Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day,
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast,
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray,
Catching brief splendour from the purple west?
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile
With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone;
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile,
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own,
Blending her rites with thine—while yet afar
Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.