vet
In the looms of Utrecht woven,
Vases of Chinese production,
Crystals, bright and burnished figures,
Models made of gold and silver,
Tapestry, and lace, and network,
Carpets from the looms of Brussels,
Woven into gaudy figures.
In a certain gorgeous chamber,
In apparel likewise gorgeous,
Sat a mighty, pompous woman.
Very high were her ideas
Of her own expanded person,
And her own unmeasured value;
All the world would not contain them,
They were so elate and soaring.
Luxury and ease were round her,
As she fancied to receive them;
And a host of powdered servants
Waited idly for her orders.
Now she calls for an attendant,
And doth give him orders thuswise:
"'Not at home' shall be the answer
Unto all who this day seek me,
Save unto his highness Fashion;
Ye shall give to him admission."
State obeisance marks his exit,
Ready for a plumper falsehood,
Spoken to his lady's order.
Soon a knock, which sounds familiar.
Lo! it is the dunning trader,
Who is sorely run to hold him
From the stream of dangerous rumours;
But the answer thus is told him--
"Not at home, my lady is not."
So the tradesman from her doorway,
Empty-handed, homeward turns,
Thinks not such a ready answer
Is an utter fabrication.
Sero, from his seat beholding,
Saw this lounging lump of matter,
Puffed up in pomp and splendor.
He was moved to indignation,
And said, in a scornful manner,
"O blinded fool! O filthy pomp!
Glory ye in dust and shadows?
See ye not the wild delusions,
Which ye cherish so and fondle,
Through the darkness they are set in?"
Said he to attendants by him,
"Go ye to that stately chamber
Where this pompous woman sitteth;
Pass the trader in the doorway
And the ready story-teller,
Enter and lay hold upon her;
Take the lusty look she weareth,
Cast it to the winds that ramble,
Racing through the hills and mountains;
Take her great imaginations,
Sift them in the seive of honor--
Lo! they are as dross and ashes,
And her pomps and giddy grandeur
Scatter and disperse them likewise."
So went Sero's servants forward,
Did as had their chief commanded,
Smote this pompous woman sorely--
With the rod of sickness smote her;
And the ruddy color left her,
And those lofty airs and manners;
Sickness and a ghastly pallor
Came upon her limbs and forehead,
And she hourly sank and wasted
Till a spectre she resembled.
Then the spirit fled the body,
And was carried unto Sero;
Sero through the wicket passed it
To the pi