Friendliest of men, ADERS, I never come Within the precincts of this sacred Room, But I am struck with a religious fear, Which says "Let no profane eye enter here." With imagery from Heav'n the walls are clothed, Making the things of Time seem vile and loathed. Spare Saints, whose bodies seem sustain'd by Love, With Martyrs old in meek procession move. Here kneels a weeping Magdalen, less bright To human sense for her blurr'd cheeks; in sight Of eyes, new-touch'd by Heav'n, more winning fair Than when her beauty was her only care. A Hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock In desart sole, his knees worn by the rock. There Angel harps are sounding, while below Palm-bearing Virgins in white order go. Madonnas, varied with so chaste design, While all are different, each seems genuine, And hers the only Jesus: hard outline, And rigid form, by DURER'S hand subdued To matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude; DURER, who makes thy slighted Germany Vie with the praise of paint-proud Italy. Whoever enter'st here, no more persume To name a Parlour, or a Drawing Room; But, bending lowly to each holy Story, Make this thy Chapel, and thine Oratory. HERCULES PACIFICATUS _A Tale from Suidas_ (1831) In days of yore, ere early Greece Had dream'd of patrols or police, A crew of rake-hells _in terrorem_ Spread wide, and carried all before 'em, Rifled the poultry, and the women, And held that all things were in common; Till Jove's great Son the nuisance saw, And did abate it by Club Law. Yet not so clean he made his work, But here and there a rogue would lurk In caves and rocky fastnesses, And shunn'd the strength of Hercules.