St. Paul

I dream’d that, with a passionate complaint,
  I wish’d me born amid God’s deeds of might;
  And envied those who had the presence bright
Of gifted Prophet and strong-hearted Saint,
Whom my heart loves, and Fancy strives to paint.
  I turn’d, when straight a stranger met my sight,
  Came as my guest, and did awhile unite
His lot with mine, and lived without restraint.
Courteous he was, and grave⁠—so meek in mien,
It seem’d untrue, or told a purpose weak;
Yet, in the mood, he could with aptness speak,
Or with stern force, or show of feelings keen,
Marking deep craft, methought, or hidden pride:⁠—
Then came a voice⁠—“St. Paul is at thy side.”