there. 
  But how could I in mood so light indulge,
  Keeping such fresh remembrance of the day, 540
  When, having thridded the long labyrinth
  Of the suburban villages, I first
  Entered thy vast dominion? [o] On the roof
  Of an itinerant vehicle I sate,
  With vulgar men about me, trivial forms 545
  Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and things,—­
  Mean shapes on every side:  but, at the instant,
  When to myself it fairly might be said,
  The threshold now is overpast, (how strange
  That aught external to the living mind 550
  Should have such mighty sway! yet so it was),
  A weight of ages did at once descend
  Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no
  Distinct remembrances, but weight and power,—­
  Power growing under weight:  alas!  I feel 555
  That I am trifling:  ’twas a moment’s pause,—­
  All that took place within me came and went
  As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells,
  And grateful memory, as a thing divine.

  The curious traveller, who, from open day, 560
  Hath passed with torches into some huge cave,
  The Grotto of Antiparos, [p] or the Den
  In old time haunted by that Danish Witch,
  Yordas; [q] he looks around and sees the vault
  Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he sees, 565
  Erelong, the massy roof above his head,
  That instantly unsettles and recedes,—­
  Substance and shadow, light and darkness, all
  Commingled, making up a canopy
  Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 570
  That shift and vanish, change and interchange
  Like spectres,—­ferment silent and sublime! 
  That after a short space works less and less,
  Till, every effort, every motion gone,
  The scene before him stands in perfect view 575
  Exposed, and lifeless as a written book!—­
  But let him pause awhile, and look again,
  And a new quickening shall succeed, at first
  Beginning timidly, then creeping fast,
  Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, 580
  Busies the eye with images and forms
  Boldly assembled,—­here is shadowed forth
  From the projections, wrinkles, cavities,
  A variegated landscape,—­there the shape
  Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, 585
  The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk. 
  Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff: 
  Strange congregation! yet not slow to meet
  Eyes that perceive through minds that can inspire.

    Even in such sort had I at first been moved, 590
  Nor otherwise continued to be moved,
  As I explored the vast metropolis,
  Fount of my country’s destiny and the world’s;
  That great emporium, chronicle at once
  And burial-place of passions, and their home 595
  Imperial, their chief living residence.