Surrounded by a spacious court there stood The “Temple of the Sun,” a glorious shrine; Its lone inhabitant was the Mameluke rude, ’Mid broken shaft, and cornice carved divine, And exquisite pilaster’s wrought design; Whose porch the Syrian devotee adored, Where mystic rites were seen to blaze and shine, Before the awe-struck multitude revered, Where prostrate serf once bowed, and helmed chief with sword. CVII. From hence their eye a new direction found, That caught their wonder and astonishment, Where flanked there rose, with lofty turrets crowned, A massy wall upreared in bold ascent, With battlements all armed with deadly bent, That stretched o’er mountain ridge its winding way In many a league of wond’rous extent, That length unlimited it did convey, Like that through Tartar land, that rose above decay. CVIII. “One other object of man’s practised art, Where ’mid the torrent wave he builds on high, I would ye should behold ere we depart-- Famed bulwark Smeeton’s, of the sea and sky-- The rock-based Eddystone, that waves defy, As surge loud roaring lifts its white-crest head, Rocking th’ edifice in its energy; That frowns defiance to the monster dread, And back repels the flood, hurled to its stormy bed. CIX. “’Tis time we take a more minute survey Of painting, sculpture, in its chisell’d grace. Haste follow me, and I will lead the way, Where master hand of genius you may trace In canvass glow, or sculptor’s form embrace; And where the thrilling soul of poesy, With her enraptured sweet translated face, That claims an essence that can never die So much of heav’nly beam, of inborn energy.” CX. The crowd at once, as he thus forthway led, Right gladly followed where he pleased to guide, Till reached a vestibule, show’d arched o’erhead, Which he to ope with key took from his side, When straightway flung the creaking doorway wide, That opened to a spacious gallery high, Surpassing far-famed “Louvre” in its pride, Or that of “Fonthill,” noble to the eye, So vast its vista’s length, and glorious canopy. CXI. That noble gallery, hung with works of art Which crowded every space, a goodly show; A Claude’s soft tints did each fair charm impart, The dreamy landscape of the summer’s glow, Where love-sick swain might nurse his am’rous woe: Such Poussin drew; while he, sublimely bold, Great artist Angelo, like to heav’n’s bow His pencil dipt radiant as molten gold, Whose canvass glowing breathed all wondrous to behold. CXII.