320 HAMPTON COURT.
And there the pampered people of the pool
Swam lazily, in gold and silver coats,
To take some dainty morsel from the hand
Of merry childhood. The old Hamburgh vine
Round its glass palace groped with monstrous arms,
And filled each nook with clusters, proud to load
The royal table. In yon tennis-court
How many a feat of strength and shout of mirth
Have held their course, since from these halls arose
The Christmas carol of old Tudor s time.
Raphael s bold pencil here with wondrous power
Survives, and many a modern artist decks
Ceiling, and wall, and staircase. But t is vain
In lays like mine, to tell what pictures say
From age to age ; for Painting may not bend
To Poesy. She, on her pedestal,
Robed with the rainbow stands, and mocks at those
Who, with a goose-quill and a drop of ink,
Are fain to take her likeness. Quaint conceits
Of him of Orange and his Stuart queen
Adorn these haunts, while frequent on the walls
Their blended names in curious love-knot twine.
Here, too, stout Cromwell stretched himself to die;
His pale lip sated with the love of power
By blood obtained.
But most of all we meet, Where er in musing reverie we tread, Wolsey, the master-spirit, who upreared This princely pile, and from a germ obscure Towered up to such o erwhelming magnitude
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