22
THE RESTORATION
Lord of the day-star! how may words pourtray
Of thy chastc glory one reflected ray?
W'hate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace,
Of regal dignity, and heavenly grace;
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright,
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight;
Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky,
To vest th' embodied form of Deity;
All, all in thee ennobled and refined,
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined!
Son of Elysium! years and ages gone,
Have bowed, in speechless homage, at thy throne,
And days unborn, and nations yet to be,
Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstasy, on thee!
And thou, triumphant wreck1[1], e'en yet sublime,
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and Time,
