Fitlier, he thought, such chamber might beseem
Some hermit of Hilarion’s school austere,
Or old Antonius, he who from the hell
Of his bewilder’d phantasy saw fiends
In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque
Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene
Crowd in broad day before his open eyes.
That feeling cast a momentary shade
Of sadness o’er his soul. But deeper thoughts,
If he might have foreseen the things to come,