WHAT has become of the cast-off coats
That covered Will Shakespeare's back?
What has become of the old row-boats
Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley's cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store
Of Queen Elizabeth's ruffs?
Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
Where are Marc Antony's clothes?
Where are the gloves from Antoinette's hand?
Where Oliver Goldsmith's hose?
I do not search for the ships of Tyre—
The grave of Whittington's cat
Would sooner set my spirit on fire—
Or even Beau Brummel's hat.
And when I reflect that there are spots
In the world that I can't find,
Where lie these same identical lots,
And many of this same kind,
I'm tempted to give a store of gold
To him that will bring to me
A glass, Earth's mysteries to unfold,
And show me where these things be.