Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade,
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought,
I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought!
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!