I

Beneath the concave of an April sky, When all the fields with freshest green were dight, Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, The form and rich habiliments of One Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, When it reveals, in evening majesty, Features half lost amid their own pure light. Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air He hung,--then floated with angelic ease (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees) Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare, Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noontide breeze. Upon the apex of that lofty cone Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east Suddenly raised by some enchanter's power, Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower!