Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/185

 Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps Lo! Priestley there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage, Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen A childish pang of impotent regret Hath thrill'd my heart. Him from his native land Statesmen blood-stain'd and Priests idolatrous By dark lies mad'ning the blind multitude Drove with vain hate: calm, pitying he retir'd, And mus'd expectant on these promis'd years.

O Years! the blest preeminence of Saints! Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze Bright as what glories of the jasper throne Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes Of Spirits adoring! Ye, blest Years! must end, And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange!