From such a cloud, and following as I went
My master’s faithful steps with even pace,
I came to where the day’s last rays were spent
On the low border of the mountain’s base.
O gift imaginative! that dost so
Of ourselves rob us, that oft-times a man
Heeds not though round him thousand trumpets blow!
If thee sense move not, whence the power that can?
A light moves thee, Heaven-kindled, that doth flow
By will divine directed, or its own.