And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220]
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.
LXXV.
But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie—
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse
Arch, column, rich mosaic—pass thou by
The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie,
Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know,
A deeper source of all sublimity