By mortal hand; it merits a divine:
Angels should paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.
Dare I presume, then? But Philander bids;
And glory tempts, and inclination calls— 620
Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, beneath
Aërial groves’ impenetrable gloom;
Or, in some mighty ruin’s solemn shade;
Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born dust,
In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter’d kings;