VII.
And now the grace of fiction, which has power
To render things impossible believed,
And win them with the credence of an hour
To be for truths received—
VIII.
That grace must help me, as it only can,
Winning such transient credence, while I tell
What to a cloistered solitary man
In ancient times befel.
IX.
Him little might our earthly grandeur feed,
Who to the uttermost was vowed to be
A follower of his Master’s barest need,
In holy poverty.
X.
Nor might he know the gentle mutual strife
Of home affections, which can more or less
Temper with sweet the bitter of our life,
And lighten its distress.