LXI. Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
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