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148
THE TRIUMPHS


Summon'd his modish architect, whose skill
Can all the wishes of caprice fulfil.
His genius, equal to the wildest task,
Gave to the house itself a Gothic mask.
The chaplain, that no guest might feel neglect,
As a magician of the Arab sect,
Wav'd a presiding wand throughout the ball,
And well provided for the wants of all.
The peer himself, his prowess to evince,
Shines in the semblance of a Moorish prince;
And round the brilliant mimic hero wait
All pomp and circumstance of Moorish state:
Thro' all his splendid dome no eye could find
Aught unembellish'd, save the master's mind,
There, tho' represt by courtesy's control,
Lurks the low mover of the little soul,
Mean Vanity; whose slave can never prove
The heart-refining flame of genuine love.
While her cold joys his abject mind amuse,
His thoughts are busied on connubial views.