“Black eyes you have left, you say, Blue eyes fail to draw you; Yet you seem more rapt to-day, Than of old we saw you.

“Oh, I track the fairest fair Through new haunts of pleasure; Footprints here and echoes there Guide me to my treasure:

“Lo! she turns—immortal youth Wrought to mortal stature, Fresh as starlight’s aged truth— Many-namèd Nature!”

A great historian, as he insisted on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is observed to walk