With head inclin’d, each dusky lineament
Show’d in the pearl-pav’d street, as in a glass;
His purple vest, that ever peeping was
Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak,
His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash
Tied in a burnish’d knot, their semblance took
Upon the mirror’d walls, wherever he might look.
XXXI.
He smil’d at self, and, smiling, show’d his teeth,
And seeing his white teeth, he smil’d the more;
Lifted his eyebrows, spurn’d the path beneath,
Show’d teeth again, and smil’d as heretofore,
Until he knock’d at the magician’s door;
Where, till the porter answer’d, might be seen,
In the clear panel more he could adore,
His turban wreath’d of gold, and white, and green,
Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen.
XXXII.
“Does not your master give a rout tonight?”
Quoth the dark page. “Oh, no!” return’d the Swiss,
“Next door but one to us, upon the right,
The Magazin des Modes now open is
Against the Emperor’s wedding; and, sir, this
My master finds a monstrous horrid bore;
As he retir’d, an hour ago I wis,
With his best beard and brimstone, to explore
And cast a quiet figure in his second floor.
XXXIII.
“Gad! he’s oblig’d to stick to business!
For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price;
And as for aqua vitae there’s a mess!
The dentes sapientiae of mice,
Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,
Tinder’s a lighter article, nitre pure
Goes off like lightning, grains of Paradise
At an enormous figure! stars not sure!
Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur!
XXXIV.
“Venus won’t stir a peg without a fee,
And master is too partial, entre nous,
To” “Hush, hush!” cried Eban, “sure that is he
Coming down stairs, by St. Bartholomew!
As backwards as he can, is’t something new?
Or is’t his custom, in the name of fun?”
“He always comes down backward, with one shoe”
Return’d the porter, “off, and one shoe on,
Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!”
XXXV.
It was indeed the great Magician,
Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair,
And retrograding careful as he can,
Backwards and downwards from his own two pair:
“Salpietro!” exclaim’d Hum, “is the dog there?
He’s always in my way upon the mat!”
“He’s in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,”
Reply’d the Swiss, “the nasty, yelping brat!”
“Don’t beat him!” return’d Hum, and on the floor came pat.
XXXVI.
Then facing right about, he saw the Page,
And said: “Don’t tell me what you want, Eban;
The Emperor is now in a huge rage,
’Tis nine to one he’ll give you the rattan!
Let us away!” Away together ran
The plain-dress’d sage and spangled blackamoor,
Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan,
And breathe themselves at th’ Emperor’s chamber door,
When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore.
XXXVII.
“I thought you guess’d, foretold, or prophesy’d,
That’s Majesty was in a raving fit?”
“He dreams,” said Hum, “or I have ever lied,
That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit.”
“He’s not asleep, and you have little wit,”
Reply’d the page; “that little buzzing noise,
Whate’er your palmistry may make of it,
Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor’s choice,
From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys.”
XXXVIII.
Eban then usher’d in the learned Seer:
Elfinan’s back was turn’d, but, ne’ertheless,
Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear,
Crept silently, and waited in distress,
Knowing the Emperor’s moody bitterness;
Eban especially, who on the floor ‘gan
Tremble and quake to death, he feared less
A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon
Than the Emperor when he play’d on his Man-Tiger-Organ.
XXXIX.
They kiss’d nine times the carpet’s velvet face
Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green,
Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace
A silver tissue, scantly to be seen,
As daisies lurk’d in June-grass, buds in green;
Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand
Of majesty, by dint of passion keen,
Doubled into a common fist, went grand,
And knock’d down three cut glasses, and his best inkstand.
XL.
Then turning round, he saw those trembling two:
“Eban,” said he, “as slaves should taste the fruits
Of diligence, I shall remember you
Tomorrow, or next day, as time suits,
In a finger conversation with my mutes,
Begone! for you, Chaldean! here remain!
Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits
A conjurer’s spirits, what cup will you drain?
Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass’d champagne?”
XLI.
“Commander of the faithful!” answer’d Hum,
“In preference to these, I’ll merely taste
A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.”
“A simple boon!” said Elfinan; “thou may’st