Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VERSES WRITTEN IN THE CHIOSK OF THE BRITISH PALACE, AT PERA, by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE CHIOSK OF THE BRITISH PALACE, AT PERA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Give me, great god! Said I, a little farm
Last Line: Who dare have virtue in a vicious age.
Alternate Author Name(s): Montagu, Mary Wortley; Pierrepont, Mary
Subject(s): Constantinople; Travel; Turkey; Istambul; Byzantium; Journeys; Trips


GIVE me, great God! said I, a little farm,
In summer shady, and in winter warm;
Where a clear spring gives birth to murm'ring brooks,
By nature gliding down the mossy rocks.
Not artfully by leaden pipes convey'd,
Or greatly falling in a forc'd cascade,
Pure and unsullied winding through the shade.
All bonteous Heaven has added to my prayer,
A softer climate and a purer air.
Our frozen Isle now chilling winter binds,
Deform'd by rains, and rough with blasting winds;
The wither'd woods grow white with hoary frost,
By driving storms their verdant beauty lost;
The trembling birds their leafless covert shun,
And seek in distant climes a warmer sun:
The water-nymphs their silent urns deplore,
E'en Thames, benumd'd, is a river now no more;
The barrenn meads no longer yield delight,
By glist'ning snows made painful to the sight,

Here summer reigns with one eternal smile,
Succeeding harvests bless the happy soil;
Fair fertile fields, to whom indulgent Heaven
Has every charm of every season given.
No killing cold deforms the beauteous year,
The springing flowers no coming winter fear.
But as the parent rose decays and dies,
The infant buds with brighter colors rise,
And with fresh sweets the mother's scent supplies.

Near them the violet grows with odors blest,
And blooms in more than Tyrian purple drest;
The rich jonquils their golden beams display,
And shine in glory's emulating day;
The peaceful groves their verdant leaves retain,
The streams still murmur, undefiled with rain,
And towering greens adorn the fruitful plain.
The warbling kind uninterrupted sing,
Warmed with enjoyments of perpetual spring.

Here, at my window, I at once survey
The crowded city and resounding sea;
In distant views the Asian mountains rise,
And lose their snowy summits in the skies;
Above these mountains proud Olympus towers,
The parliamental seat of heavenly powers!
New to the sight, my ravished eyes admire
Each gilded crescent and each antique spire,
The marble mosques, beneath whose ample domes
Fierce warlike sultans sleep in peaceful tombs;
Those lofty structures, once the Christians' boast,
Their names, their beauty, and their honors lost;
Those altars bright with gold and sculpture graced,
By barbarous zeal of savage foes defaced;
Sophia alone her ancient name retains,
Though the unbeliever now her shrine profanes;
Where holy saints have died in sacred cells,
Where monarchs prayed, the frantic dervise dwells.
How art thou fallen, imperial city, low!
Where are thy hopes of Roman glory now?
Where are thy palaces by prelates raised?
Where Grecian artists all their skill displayed,
Before the happy sciences decayed:
So vast, that youthful kings might here reside,
So splendid, to content a patriarch's pride;
Convents where emperors professed of old,
The labored pillars that their triumphs told;
Vain monuments of them that once were great,
Sunk undistinguished by one common fate;
One little spot the tenure small contains,
Of Greek nobility the poor remains.
Where other Helens, with like powerful charms,
Had once engaged the warring world in arms;
Those names which royal ancestors can boast,
In mean mechanic arts obscurely lost;
Those eyes a second Homer might inspire,
Fixed at the loom, destroy their useless fire;
Grieved at a view, which struck upon my mind
The short-lived vanity of humankind.

In gaudy objects I indulge my sight,
And turn where Eastern pomp gives gay delight;
See the vast train in various habits drest,
By the bright scimitar and sable vest
The proud vizier distinquish'd o'er the rest!
Six slaves in gay attire his bridle hold,
His bridle rich with gems, and stirrups gold;
His snowy steed adorn'd with costly pride,
Whole troops of soldiers mounted by his side,
These top the plumy crest Arabian coursers guide.
With artful duty all decline their eyes,
No bellowing shouts of noisy crowds arise;
Silence, in solemn state, the march attends,
Till at the dread divan the slow procession ends.

Yet not these prospects all profusely gay,
The gilded navy that adorns the sea,
The rising city in confusion fair,
Magnificently form'd, irregular,
Where woods and palaces at once surprise,
Gardens on gardens, domes on domes arise,
And endless beauties tire the wand'ring eyes,
So soothe my wishes, or so charm my mind,
As this retreat secure from humankind.
No knave's successful craft does sleen excite,
No coxcomb's tawdry splendour shocks my sight,
No mob-alarm awakes my female fear,
No praise my mind, nor envy hurts my ear,
Ev'n fame itself can hardly reach me here;
Impertinence, with all her tattling train,
Fair-sounding flattery's delicious bane;
Censorious folly, noisy party rage,
The thousand tongues with which she must engage
Who dare have virtue in a vicious age.




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