Originally published in Leigh Hunt's Journal (Edward Moxon) vol.1 #3 (21 Dec 1850).
I don this Magic Cap of mine,
Whereon the sun's forbid to shine,
Which takes a hundred shapes, more swift
Than an air-tost cloud can shift.
It shoots to point, or spreads to brim;
Cocks itself to courtly trim;
Jockey roundness can assume;
Or sprout a noble Knightly Plume;
Roughen up, like cat in passion;
Aretie smooth to Paris fashion;
Nipt below and flattened square,
Turn to grave Collegiate wear;
Rise with added touch of brightness
Into Lancer's toyish lightness;
Then, relapsed to colours sadder,
Flap down, like a Jacob's Ladder,
As on broad Coalheaver's nape;
Spin wide round to Quaker shape;
By heat o' the brain curl'd up as soon
To Helmet, fit for bold Dragoon.
It splits: a Mitre it appears;
Then opens into Ass's Ears;
Droops, and lo! a Learned Wig;
Shrinks to a Cue; again looks big
When three long Tails from one unfold,
Twist like snakes, and lie uproll'd,
A Turban huge: it fades to air,
And saintly Rays are shooting there
Around my head ;—not Rays at all,
But Quills that mark a Cannibal!
They bristle up, they strangely wax
To Three Hats in St. Mary Axe.
No, no! I see it plainer now,
St. Peter's, and upon my brow
The tall tiara presses tight;
To bear and balance it aright
Asks clever juggling. Take it off!
I start: my Magic Cap I doff.
My Magic Cap has ceased to fit.
I hope I shall not lose with it
The gift therein presented to me:
Freedom of a City, gloomy,
Lively, populous, silent, vast,
Built on a river of the Past,
Where long-set suns and wanèd moons
Make the mystic nights and noons,
And people lost from Life I meet
Walking up and down the street;
Strange as the City of Enchanters
Some wandering king at nightfall enters,
In those regions dim and dread
Beyond the Sea of Darkness spread.