Superb recesses,[1] sparkling chandeliers,
Vases of China, and Carrara urns,
And the carved woods of distant worlds—do ye
Give peace? Are ye the evidence of bliss?
Doth happiness dwell with ye?
Had better witnesses of joy. The oak,
The ash, and the wild pear-tree, furnished all
Their dwellings, and the lofty pine their floors,
Or oft the solid earth. One chamber made
A home—when guests, however numerous, came,
A blanket flung around them well suffic'd.
No rich superfluous beds—the roof was thatch—
And the walls hung with friendly arms around;
Not silk or paper tap'stry—wooden stools
Or benches round the smiling board, and plates
Of earthenware or tin—but bliss was there,
And mirth, and song, and friendship. We possess
The show, but the reality is gone.
How many are the cabinets where now
An honest Chizma[2] may not tread—shut out
By slippers, socks, and other fantasies,
With which a man must garnish, or remain
In th' outer chamber.
Thy desolate retreats are dearer far
