It is a pleasant thing to rhyme,
Providing it but bring you money;
But sweeter still to pass the time
In building fabrics high and sunny.
Alnaschar, ere he bent his knee
To give a climax to his lecture,
Could by no chance have mated me
At atmospheric architecture.
From early boyhood I began
To follow Vathek, and erected
A goodly pile, upon a plan
That was not with due care inspected.
I rear'd up columns rich with fret,
And all the cunning of the gilder;
But somehow, to my deep regret,
They always fell upon their builder.
I rear'd in many a forest black
Huge castles by deep moats defended;
And strode their master, mail on back,
With half-a-dozen knights attended.
We sat, like those of Branksome Hall,
In armour, just as we were able,
And drank red wine from goblets tall,
And clash'd mail'd hands across the table.
From this you cannot fail to guess
That I was with the Middle Ages,
And never was at ease unless
With stately dames and graceful pages.
But what with manhood sober'd down,
Those dreams that made me so despotic
Have burst their chrysalis, and flown,
And left me others less Quixotic.
And now, when in my building mood,
And all my whims have free expansion,
I shape within a sober wood
An old discolour'd Gothic mansion.
You scarce can see it for the trees
That kindly interlace their branches,
Through which the sunshine slips at ease,
And falls in sunny avalanches.
Around are long and shady walks,
That lead in many a quaint direction—
Fit haunts for sage who sighs and talks,
And shakes his head as in dejection;
Or some bold poet, when his thought
Was at its swiftest mood for seizing
The glowing images it sought,
And mould them into something pleasing.
Clear leaping fountains here and there
Through all the summer day are playing;
Soft winds are coming through the air,
That bring sweet incense in their straying.
And statues from the Greek are set—
Aglow with all their snowy graces—
In nooks where drooping leaves are met,
And half conceal them in their places.
But in my own sweet sanctum, where
No outer noise dare make intrusion,
You ought to pay a visit there,
And see the poet in seclusion.
The rich light falls upon the wall,
Then fades away to something fainter,
Before white marble busts, and all
The masterpieces of the painter.
Here as you enter, on your left
A Goethe stands, whose marble vision
Seems still to keep that light which cleft
Through all this life with such precision.
While on your right, with upturn'd brow,
A Schiller stands, with noble presence,
To teach one all the upward glow
Revolving round the purer essence.
Then right before me where I sit
A Milton looks across to Dante,
Whose brows contract, as loth to fit
The slender sprig of laurel scanty.
These two would always catch my eye
When looking up for inspiration,
And teach me, when the mood was high,
To mould the keen imagination.
In every nook within the room
My favourite books get sacred lodgment—
Word-webs from the brain's restless loom,
Spun out with truth and sober judgment.
A hundred spirits there repose,
Who, at my slightest will and pleasure,
As Ariel did at Prospero's,
Kneel down and offer up their treasure.
Like Southey, all my days would be
Among the dead, but that is lying;
The mighty dead, it seems to me,
Are those that only are undying.
Of course they take our death, a pain
Which we, as humankind, inherit,
And pass for ever, to remain
Swift's struldbrugs living in the spirit.
But I digress. Not all alone
Am I within this learnèd palace,
For, as the twilight wanders on
And feels along the distant valleys,
The door creeps softly back, and then
A fairy creature growing bolder
Comes in, and, soft as falling rain,
Lays both her hands upon my shoulder.
Then turning round, I see a face
Where love with rounded youth is blended,
And all the nameless winning grace,
Above my own all softly bended;
And, ere I can get time to speak,
Or smile a welcome at the meeting,
Two little lips, all coy and meek,
Against my own press rosy greeting.
Then, sitting on my knee, she slips
One arm around me, while the other
Comes down, until her finger tips
Are in my beard to plague and bother.
And still she whispers, while her look
Turns sad to see my deep abstraction—
'Come, take a rest, your last new book
Might surely give you satisfaction.'
But just as I put up my hand
To bring her head a little nearer,
To kiss the lips that so command,
And tell her she is growing dearer—
Beim himmel! swift as lightning flies,
My statues, mansion, wife, and fountains
Dissolve, and I—I rub my eyes,
Like Rip Van on the Kaatskill mountains.
And so, instead of all my fame,
My pictures, busts—both Greek and Roman—
A wife, a noble after-name,
Which makes its owner envy no man;
Instead of running into town
To see the last new book or picture,
Or hear some oracle full grown
Deliver philosophic stricture:
In lieu of this, a case of books,
A little room confined and narrow,
That might have sour'd the anxious looks
Of Faust, whose thoughts eat to the marrow.
A little desk, where all my brains
Get warp'd with long Parnassian creepers,
And dull'd throughout the day by trains,
Pick, shovel, hammers, rails, and sleepers.