He was a mild old man, and cherished much The weight dark Egypt on his spirit laid; And with a sinuous eloquence would touch For ever at that haven of the dead. Single romantic words by him were thrown, As types, on men and places, with a power Like that of shifting sunlight after shower Kindling the cones of hills and journeying on. He feared the gods and heroes, and spake low, That Echo might not hear in her light room: He was a dweller underground; for gloom Fitted old heathen goodness more than glow; And, where love was not, faith might gather mirth From ore that glistened in pale beds of earth.