When he, on twelve's last stroke must pass away,
Room making for his heir, great PUNCHIUS-MERLIN
Left the Old King, and passing forth to breathe,
Then from the mystic gateway by the chasm
Descending through the wintry night—a night
In which the bounds of year and year were blent—
Beheld, so high upon the wave-tost deep
It seemed in heaven, a light, the shape thereof
An angel winged, and all from head to feet
Bright with a shining radiance golden-rayed,