Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him,
Who bade thro’ heaven your golden chariots wheel,
Yet who earth-born can see your hosts, nor feel
Immortal impulses—Eternity?
What wonder if the o’erwrought soul should reel
With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye
See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory lie?
For ye behold the Mightiest. From that steep
What ages have ye worshipped round your King,
Ye heard his trumpet sounded o’er the deep