Yet being now, made earth like heaven; nor pride,
  Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame,
  The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall,
  Spoiled the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love.

  Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and prisons, wherein,
  And beside which, by wretched men were borne
  Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes
  Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance,
  Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes,
  The ghosts of a no-more-remembered fame
  Which from their unworn obelisks, look forth
  In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs
  Of those who were their conquerors; mouldering round,
  Those imaged to the pride of kings and priests
  A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide
  As is the world it wasted, and are now
  But an astonishment; even so the tools
  And emblems of its last captivity,
  Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth,
  Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now.
  And those foul shapes,--abhorred by god and man,
  Which, under many a name and many a form
  Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and execrable,