Full in the midst of this created space, Between heaven, earth, and skies, there stands a place, Confining on all three, with triple bound, Whence all things, though remote, are view’d around, And thither bring their undulating sound. The palace of loud Fame, her seat of power, Placed on the summit of a lofty tower; A thousand winding entries long and wide Receive of fresh reports a flowing tide. A thousand crannies in the walls are made, Nor gate, nor bars, exclude the busy trade: ’Tis built of brass, the better to diffuse The spreading sounds, and multiply the news; Where echoes in repeated echoes play; A mart for ever full, and open night and day. Nor silence is within, nor voice express, But a deaf noise of sounds, that never cease. Confused, and chiding, like the hollow roar Of tides receding from the insulted shore; Or like the broken thunder heard from far, When Jove to distance drives the rolling war. The courts are fill’d with a tumultuous din Of crowds, or issuing forth, or entering in; A thoroughfare of news, where some devise