Fragment Of "The Castle Builder."

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 thro' four large windows and display     Clear, but for gold-fish vases 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 bower'd with oranges.     Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees     A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove     Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love;     A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,     All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair;     A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon     A glorious folio of Anacreon;     A skull upon a mat of roses lying,     Ink'd 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 phantasy can win.     It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad;     The draperies are so, as tho' they had     Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet;     And opposite the stedfast 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-coverlits of Jason's fleece     And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought,     Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.     My ebon sofas 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.