Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible.

But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.

He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.

Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.