So drowned, amid the peal of Saxon bells,
Thought of that life wherein her true soul dwells.
VIII.
Seemed it as if the poet built a shrine—
Lifting its towers in the radiant air
The doves might haunt to make it seem more fair,
Lifting its columns that an art divine
With watching saints should crown, setting its floor
In firm mosaic, where, alas! inwrought
Should forms misshapen of ungentle thought