Poems (Gould, 1833)/Address to the Automaton Chess Player
ADDRESS TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.
Thou wondrous cause of speculation,Of deep research and cogitationOf many a head, and many a nation, While all in vainHave tried their wits to answer whetherIn silver, gold, steel, silk, or leather,Or human parts, or all together, Consists thy brain!
When first I viewed thine awful face,Rising above that ample case,Which gives thy cloven foot a place, Thy double shoe,I marvelled whether I had seenOld Nick himself, or a machine,Or something fixed midway between The distant two!
A sudden shuddering seized my frame;With feeling that defies a name,Of wonder, horror, doubt, and shame, The tout ensemble,I deemed thee formed with power and will;My hair rose up—my blood stood still,And curdled with a fearful chill, Which made me tremble.
I thought if, e'en within thy glove,Thy cold and fleshless hand should moveTo rest on me, the touch would prove Far worse than death;That I should be transformed, and seeThousands, and thousands gaze on me,A living, moving thing, like thee, Devoid of breath.
When busy, curious, learned and wiseRegard thee with inquiring eyesTo find wherein thy mystery lies, On thy stiff neck,Turning thy head with grave precision,Their optic light and mental visionAlike defying, with decision, Thou giv'st them "check!"
Some say a little man residesBetween thy narrow, bony sides;And round the world within thee rides: Absurd the notion!For what's the human thing 't would lurkIn thine unfeeling breast, Sir Turk,Performing thus thine inward work, And outward motion?
Some whisper that thou 'rt he, who fellFrom Heaven's high courts, down, down, to dwellIn that deep place of sulphury smell And lurid flame. Thy keeper then deserves a pension,For seeking out this wise inventionTo hold thee harmless, in detention, Close at thy game.
Now, though all Europe has confessed,That in thy master Maelzel's breastHidden, thy secret still must rest, Yet, 't were great pity,With all our intellectual light,That none should view thy nature right,—But thou must leave in fog and night Our keen-eyed city.
Then just confide in me, and show,Or tell, how things within thee go!Speak in my ear so quick and low None else shall know it.But, mark me! if I should discoverWithout thine aid, thy secret mover,With thee forever all is over, I'll quickly blow it!