Say, Paxton, truth,
Thou wondthrous youth,
What sthroke of art celistial
What power was lint
You to invint
This combineetion cristial
O would before
That Thomas Moore
Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
Thim aigles sthrong
Of Godlike song,
Cast oi on that cast oiron!
And saw thim walls,
And glittering halls,
Thim rising slendther columns,
Which I, poor pote,
Could not denote,
No, not in twinty vollums.
My Muse's words
Is like the birds
That roosts beneath the panes there;
Her wings she spoils
'Gainst them bright toiles,
And cracks her silly brains there.
This Palace tall,
This Cristial Hall,
Which imperors might covet,
Stands in Hide Park
Like Noah's Ark
A rainbow bint above it.
The towers and faynes,
In other scaynes,
The fame of this will undo,
Saint Paul's big doom,
St. Payther's Room,
And Dublin's proud Rotundo.
'Tis here that roams,
As well becomes
Her dignitee and stations,
Victoria great,
And houlds in state
The Congress of the Nations.
Her subjects pours
From distant shores.
Her Injians and Canajians;
And also we,
Her kingdoms three,
Attind with our allagiance.
Here comes likewise
Her bould allies,
Both Asian and Europian;
From East and West
They sent their best
To fill her Coornocopean.
I seen (thank Grace!)
This wondthrous place
(His Noble Honor Misteer
H. Cole it was
That gave the pass,
And let me see what is there.)