VII.

  Here to Salvator’s solemn pencil true,
    Huge oaks swing rudely in the mountain blast;
  Here grave Poussin on gloomy canvass threw
    The lights that steal from clouds of tempest past;
  And see! from Canaletti’s glassy wave,
    Like Eastern mosques, patrician Venice rise;
  Or marble moles that rippling waters lave,
    Where Claude’s warm sunsets tinge Italian skies!

  VIII.

  Nor let the critic frown such themes arraign,
    Here sleep the mellow lyre’s enchanting keys;
  Here the wrought table’s darkly polish’d plain,
    Proffers light lore to much-enduring ease;
  Enamelled clocks here strike the silver bell;
    Here Persia spreads the web of many dies;
  Around, on silken couch, soft cushions swell,
    That Stambol’s viziers proud might not despise.

  IX.

  The golden lamp here sheds its pearly light,
    Within the cedar’d panels, dusky pale;
  No mirror’d walls the wandering glance invite,
    No gauzy curtains drop the misty veil. 
  And there the vista leads of lessening doors,
    And there the summer sunset’s golden gleam
  Along the line of darkling portrait pours,
    And warms the polish’d oak or ponderous beam.

  X.

  Hark! from the depths beneath that proud saloon
    The water’s moan comes fitful and subdued,
  Where in mild glory yon triumphant moon
    Smiles on the arch that nobly spans the flood—­
  And here have kings and hoary statesmen gazed,
    When spring with garlands deck’d the vale below,
  Or when the waning year had lightly razed
    The banks where Avon’s lingering fountains flow.

  XI.

  And did no minstrel greet the courtly throng? 
    Did no fair flower of English loveliness
  On timid lute sustain some artless song,
    Her meek brow bound with smooth unbraided tress? 
  For Music knew not yet the stately guise,
    Content with simplest notes to touch the soul,
  Not from her choirs as when loud anthems rise,
    Or when she bids orchestral thunders roll!

  XII.

  Here too the deep and fervent orison
    Hath matron whisper’d for her absent lord,
  Peril’d in civil wars, that shook the throne,
    When every hand in England, clench’d the sword:—­
  And here, as tales and chronicles agree,
    If tales and chronicles be deem’d sincere,
  Fair Warwick’s heiress smiled at many a plea
    Of puissant Thane, or Norman cavalier.

  XIII.

  Or dost thou sigh for theme of classic lore
    Midst arms and moats, and battlements and towers? 
  Behold the Vase! that, erst on Anio’s shore,
    Hath found a splendid home in Warwick’s bowers: 
  To British meads ere yet the Saxon came,
    The pomp of senates swept its pedestal,
  And kings of many an Oriental name
    Have seen its shadow, and are perish’d all!