XCIII.
Thou hast a rich world round thee—mighty shades
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o’er thy head,
With the light melting through their high arcades
As through a pillar’d cloister’s;[298] but the dead
Sleep not beneath; nor doth the sunbeam pass
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass;
Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led
To worship, thou art blest! to thee is shown
Earth in her holy pomp, deck’d for her God alone.