Enter the house, ascend the stair!
Consult the scintillating ball;
Beatrice Freudenthal, beware!
Eve felt like you before the Fall.
Within the shining mystic globe,
Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown;
A modern prophetess will probe
The future—for one guinea down.
For that amount the future's sword
From crystal scabbard she will drag;
She can unpack the future's hoard,
As we unpack a Gladstone bag.
Without the agency of Man,
Solely by fasting and by prayer,
The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan
Could move a wine cup through the air
Until it reached him; then he drank,
Fermented juice of rye or grape;
The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank
Away, astonished and agape.
Before the Lama turns to grapple
With State-Affairs, he learns to spin
(Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple),
In mid-air, sixty times—to win
Amusement mixed with approbation
From sceptical ambassadors,
For any kind of levitation
Increases prestige with the Powers!
Such things were practised—did not tend
To promote war or anarchy
—Yet now such things would even end
A Constitutional Monarchy.
NIGHT THOUGHTS
Magic for a holy race
Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden
The future, in its crystal case,
Lies packed—so near and yet forbidden!