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.”