For, as Iona’s saint,[26] a giant form,
Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm
(When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,
The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)
Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar
From Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore;
So, when thy pure and renovated mind
This perishable dust hath left behind,
Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,
Like distant isles embosomed in the main;