Solomon’s temple, done in copperplate;
Invention pure, but meant, we may presume,
To give some Scripture sanction to the room. 
Facing this last, two samplers you might see,
Each, with its urn and stiffly weeping tree,
Devoted to some memory long ago
More faded than their lines of worsted woe;
Cut paper decked their frames against the flies,
Though none e’er dared an entrance who were wise, 320
And bushed asparagus in fading green
Added its shiver to the franklin clean.

’When first arrived, I chilled a half-hour there,
Nor dared deflower with use a single chair;
I caught no cold, yet flying pains could find
For weeks in me,—­a rheumatism of mind. 
One thing alone imprisoned there had power
To hold me in the place that long half-hour: 
A scutcheon this, a helm-surmounted shield,
Three griffins argent on a sable field; 330
A relic of the shipwrecked past was here,
And Ezra held some Old-World lumber dear. 
Nay, do not smile; I love this kind of thing,
These cooped traditions with a broken wing,
This freehold nook in Fancy’s pipe-blown ball,
This less than nothing that is more than all! 
Have I not seen sweet natures kept alive
Amid the humdrum of your business hive,
Undowered spinsters shielded from all harms,
By airy incomes from a coat of arms?’ 340

He paused a moment, and his features took
The flitting sweetness of that inward look
I hinted at before; but, scarcely seen,
It shrank for shelter ’neath his harder mien,
And, rapping his black pipe of ashes clear,
He went on with a self-derisive sneer: 
’No doubt we make a part of God’s design,
And break the forest-path for feet divine;
To furnish foothold for this grand prevision
Is good, and yet—­to be the mere transition, 350
That, you will say, is also good, though I
Scarce like to feed the ogre By-and-By. 
Raw edges rasp my nerves; my taste is wooed
By things that are, not going to be, good,
Though were I what I dreamed two lustres gone,
I’d stay to help the Consummation on,
Whether a new Rome than the old more fair,
Or a deadflat of rascal-ruled despair;
But my skull somehow never closed the suture
That seems to knit yours firmly with the future, 360
So you’ll excuse me if I’m sometimes fain
To tie the Past’s warm nightcap o’er my brain;
I’m quite aware ’tis not in fashion here,
But then your northeast winds are so severe!

’But to my story:  though ’tis truly naught
But a few hints in Memory’s sketchbook caught,
And which may claim a value on the score
Of calling back some scenery now no more. 
Shall I confess?  The tavern’s only Lar
Seemed (be not shocked!) its homely-featured bar. 370
Here dozed a fire of beechen logs, that bred
Strange fancies in its embers golden-red,
And nursed the loggerhead whose hissing dip,