Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained
In its cold native Island, to a love
Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun
Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:
And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,
Such as the priests of old Jerusalem
Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,
From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,
Upon the fatal night before the storm,
When the Shechinah left them audibly.