Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By To the Automaton Chess Player

Hannah F. Gould (1789–1865)

THOU wond’rous cause of speculation—

Of deep research and cogitation,

Of many a head, and many a nation—

While all in vain

Have tried their wits to answer whether

In silver, gold, steel, silk, or leather,

Or human parts, or all together,

Consists thy brain!

When first I view’d thine awful face,

Rising above that ample case

Which gives thy cloven foot a place,

Thy double shoe,

I marvell’d whether I had seen

Old Nick himself, or a machine,

Or something fix’d 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 deem’d thee form’d 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 move

To rest on me, the touch would prove

Far worse than death;—

That I should be transform’d, and see

Thousands, and thousands, gaze on me,

A living, moving thing, like thee,

Devoid of breath.

When busy, curious, learn’d, and wise,

Regard thee with inquiring eyes

To find wherein thy mystery lies,

On thy stiff neck,

Turning thy head with grave precision,

Their optic light and mental vision

Alike defying, with decision,

Thou giv’st them “check!”

Some say a little man resides

Between thy narrow, bony sides,

And round the world within thee rides:

Absurd the notion!

For what ’s the human thing ’t would lurk

In thine unfeeling breast, Sir Turk,

Performing thus, thine inward work,

And outward motion?

Some whisper that thou ’rt him who fell

From heaven’s high courts, down, down to dwell

In that deep place of sulphury smell

And lurid flame.

Thy keeper, then, deserves a pension

For seeking out this wise invention,

To hold thee harmless, in detention,

Close at thy game.

Now, though all Europe has confest

That in thy master Maelzel’s breast

Hidden, thy secret still must rest,

Yet, ’t were great pity,

With all our intellectual sight,

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 discover

Without thine aid, thy secret mover,

With thee for ever all is over;

I ’ll quickly blow it!