Vi

From year to year this shaggy Mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent: Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name; Him, free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied--to indite, In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his Clan!