I won't describe; description is my forte, But every fool describes in these bright days His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise-Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport;
While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.
Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted Upon their hams, were occupied at chess;
Others in monosyllable talk chatted, And some seem'd much in love with their own dress.
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less;
And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.
As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace;
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in anywise:
One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price;
Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation.
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is.
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls, In all the flashing of their full array;
Perhaps there 's nothing- I 'll not say appals, But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing:
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, There solitude, we know, has her full growth in The spots which were her realms for evermore;
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, Seeing what 's meant for many with but one.
A neat, snug study on a winter's night, A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, Are things which make an English evening pass;
Though certes by no means so grand a sight As is a theatre lit up by gas.
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy.
Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:
I grant you in a church 't is very well:
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill-And huge tombs worse- mankind, since Adam fell:
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I 'm able.
Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, The people's awe and admiration raising;
'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated queen Semiramis.
That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy)
Of an improper friendship for her horse (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy):
This monstrous tale had probably its source (For such exaggerations here and there I see)
In writing 'Courser' by mistake for 'Courier:'
I wish the case could come before a jury here.
But to resume,- should there be (what may not Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't, Because they can't find out the very spot Of that same Babel, or because they won't (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got, And written lately two memoirs upon't), Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who Must be believed, though they believe not you, Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly;
We know where things and men must end at best:
A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And 'Et sepulchri immemor struis domos'
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.
At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, Where echo woke as if from a long slumber;
Though full of all things which could be desired, One wonder'd what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required;
Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.
It seem'd, however, but to open on A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one The movables were prodigally rich:
Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.
The black, however, without hardly deigning A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder-In that remote recess which you may see-Or if you don't the fault is not in me,-I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth A quantity of clothes fit for the back Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth;
And of variety there was no lack-And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought Most proper for the Christians he had bought.
The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech;
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy;
In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.
