All Piranesis, in their way;
Eking out bits of truth with fallacies,
And turning pig-stys into palaces.
But, worst of all, that wordy tribe,
Who sit down, hang them, to _describe_;

Who, if they can but make things fine,
Have consciences by no means tender
In sinking all that, will not shine,
All vulgar facts, that spoil their splendour:--
As Irish country squires they say,
Whene'er the Viceroy travels nigh,
Compound with beggars, on the way,
To be lock'd up, till he goes by;
And so send back his Lordship marvelling,
That Ireland should be deem'd so starveling.

This cant, for instance,--how profuse 'tis
Over the classic page of E----e!
Veiling the truth in such fine phrase,
That we for poetry might take it,
Were it not dull as prose, and praise,
And endless elegance can make it.--T. MOORE.


_Metropolitan_.

[11] The Santa Casa.