Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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!