Classic Poem

Castle Builder
In short, convince you that however wise
You may have grown from convent libraries,
I have, by many yards at least, been carding
A longer skein of wit in Convent Garden.

Bernardine
A very Eden that same place must be!
Pray what demesne? Whose lordship's legacy?
What, have you convents in that Gothic isle?
Pray pardon me, I cannot help but smile.

Castle Builder
Sir, Convent Garden is a monstrous beast:
From morning, four o'clock, to twelve at noon,
It swallows cabbages without a spoon,
And then, from twelve till two, this Eden made is
A promenade for cooks and ancient ladies;
And then for supper, 'stead of soup and poaches,
It swallows chairmen, damns, and Hackney coaches.
In short, Sir, 'tis a very place for monks,
For it containeth twenty thousand punks,
Which any man may number for his sport,
By following fat elbows up a court ...
In such like nonsense would I pass an hour
With random friar, or rake upon his tour,
Or one of few of that imperial host
Who came unmaimèd from the Russian frost.
To-night I'll have my friar — let me think
About my room — I'll have it in the pink.
It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
Should look through four large windows and display
Clear, but for golden fishes in the way,
Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor.
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
To see what else the moon alone can show;
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
My terrace is well bowered with oranges.
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove
Beside a crumple-leavèd tale of love;
A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
All finished but some ringlets of her hair;
A viol, bowstrings torn, cross-wise upon
A glorious folio of Anacreon;
A skull upon a mat of roses lying,
Inked purple with a song concerning dying;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
Of passion-flower — just in time there sails
A cloud across the moon — the lights bring in!
And see what more my fantasy can win.
It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad;
The draperies are so, as though they had
Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet;
And opposite the steadfast eye doth meet
A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face,
In letters raven-sombre, you may trace
Old ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin’.
Greek busts and statuary have ever been
Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far
Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar;
Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste
That I should rather love a Gothic waste
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay,
Than on the marble fairness of old Greece.
My table-coverlets of Jason's fleece
And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought,
Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.
My ebon sofa should delicious be
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new,
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence.
My wine — O good! 'tis here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.