Serene as the righteous looking down
On the world from his dying-bed.
Miss H. F. Gould.
41. When gleaming through the gorgeous fold
Of clouds, around his glory roll'd,
The orb of gold, half hid, half seen,
Swells his rays of tremulous sheen,
That, widely as the billows roll,
Glance quivering on their distant goal.
Sotheby—Constance de Castile.