She shines on a turret remote and lone, A turret with ivy and moss overgrown, And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone; Such a tower as a poet of no mean _calibre_ I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber, Assigns to oblivion[10]--a den for a She bear; Within it are found, Strew'd above and around, On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground, All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools, To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools, And make very wise people look very like fools; Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books, All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs, And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs To Goldsmith's work, chemistry, alchymy,--all, In short that a Sage, In that erudite age, Could require, was at hand, or at least within call. In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick!--and there A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom'd chair! Abracadabra, that fearful word, And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard, Are utter'd.--'Tis done! Peter, full of his fun, Cries, "Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun! Bring ale!--bring a flagon--a hogshead--a tun! 'Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do; And, 'fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue!" No doubt you've remark'd how uncommonly quick A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick, Brings it back to his master, and gives it him--Well, So potent the spell, The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel, So ran off like that puppy;--some cellar was near, For in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer! Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck, The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck; Continues to run At the rate it begun, And, _au pied de lettre_, next brings in a tun! A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another, Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother; Who, had he possess'd fifty pitchers or stoups, They all had been too few; for, arranging in groups The barrels, the Broomstick next _started the hoops_; The ale deluged the floor, But, still, through the door, Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more. E'en Macbeth to Macduff _Would_ have cried "Hold! enough!" If half as well drench'd with such "perilous stuff," And, Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit, Cried lustily, "Stop!--That will do, Broomstick!--_Sufficit!_" But ah, well-a-day! The Devil, they say, 'Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay. Again and again Peter roar'd out in vain His Abracadabra, and t'other words twain:-- As well might one try A pack in full cry To check, and call off from their headlong career, By bawling out, "Yoicks!" with one's hand at one's ear. The longer he roar'd, and the louder and quicker, The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.