And hovering, in the amber blaze,
Like phantoms in a golden haze.
Oh, ye that rapt in wondrous awe,
Have seen what ancient hands could draw,
Bethink ye of the shapes divine,
With wavy grace in every line,
In rainbow rays of glory hung,
Which rapt Rafaelle’s pencil flung;
And ye can tell how there I felt,
To see those cherubs as they knelt,