Sit here and muse!—it is an antique room—High-roof'd, with casements, through whose purple paneUnwilling Daylight steals amidst the gloom,Shy as a fearful stranger.ThereTheyreign(In loftier pomp than waking life had known),The Kings of Thought!—not crown'd until the grave.When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb,The beggar Homer mounts the Monarch's throne!Ye ever-living and imperial Souls,Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe,All that divide us from the clod ye gave!—Law—Order—Love—Intelligence—the SenseOf Beauty—Music and the Minstrel's wreath!—What were our wanderings if without your goals?As air and light, the glory ye dispenseBecomes our being—who of us can tellWhat he had been, had Cadmus never taughtThe art that fixes into form the thought—Had Plato never spoken from his cell,Or his high harp blind Homer never strung?Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspere sung!
Sit here and muse!—it is an antique room—High-roof'd, with casements, through whose purple paneUnwilling Daylight steals amidst the gloom,Shy as a fearful stranger.ThereTheyreign(In loftier pomp than waking life had known),The Kings of Thought!—not crown'd until the grave.When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb,The beggar Homer mounts the Monarch's throne!Ye ever-living and imperial Souls,Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe,All that divide us from the clod ye gave!—Law—Order—Love—Intelligence—the SenseOf Beauty—Music and the Minstrel's wreath!—What were our wanderings if without your goals?As air and light, the glory ye dispenseBecomes our being—who of us can tellWhat he had been, had Cadmus never taughtThe art that fixes into form the thought—Had Plato never spoken from his cell,Or his high harp blind Homer never strung?Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspere sung!
II.
Hark! while we muse, without the walls is heardThe various murmur of the laboring crowd,How still, within those archive-cells interr'd,The Calm Ones reign!—and yet they rouse the loudPassions and tumults of the circling world!From them, how many a youthful Tully caughtThe zest and ardor of the eager Bar;From them, how many a young Ambition soughtGay meteors glancing o'er the sands afar—By them each restless wing has been unfurl'd,And their ghosts urge each rival's rushing car!They made yon Preacher zealous for the truth;They made yon Poet wistful for the star;Gave Age its pastime—fired the cheek of Youth—The unseen sires of all our beings are,—
Hark! while we muse, without the walls is heardThe various murmur of the laboring crowd,How still, within those archive-cells interr'd,The Calm Ones reign!—and yet they rouse the loudPassions and tumults of the circling world!From them, how many a youthful Tully caughtThe zest and ardor of the eager Bar;From them, how many a young Ambition soughtGay meteors glancing o'er the sands afar—By them each restless wing has been unfurl'd,And their ghosts urge each rival's rushing car!They made yon Preacher zealous for the truth;They made yon Poet wistful for the star;Gave Age its pastime—fired the cheek of Youth—The unseen sires of all our beings are,—
III.
And now so still! This, Cicero, is thy heart;I hear it beating through each purple line.This is thyself, Anacreon—yet, thou artWreath'd, as in Athens, with the Cnidian vine.I ope thy pages, Milton, and, behold,Thy spirit meets me in the haunted ground!—Sublime and eloquent, as while, of old,"It flamed and sparkled in its crystal bound;"[31]Theseareyourselves—your life of life! The Wise,(Minstrel or Sage)outof their books are clay;Butintheir books, as from their graves, they rise,Angels—that, side by side, upon our way,Walk with and warn us!Hark! the world so loud,And they, the movers of the world, so still!What gives this beauty to the grave? the shroudScarce wraps the Poet, than at once there ceaseEnvy and Hate! "Nine cities claim him dead,Through which the living Homer begg'd his bread!"And what the charm that can such health distilFrom wither'd leaves—oft poisons in their bloom?We call some books immoral!Do they live?If so, believe me,Timehath made them pure.In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace—God wills that nothing evil shall endure;The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole,As the dust leaves the disembodied soul!Come from thy niche, Lucretius! Thou didst giveMan the black creed of Nothing in the tomb!Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint?No; with a listless eye we pass it o'er,And linger only on the hues that paintThe Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore.None learn from thee to cavil with their God;None commune with thy genius to departWithout a loftier instinct of the heart.Thou mak'st no Atheist—thou but mak'st the mindRicher in gifts which Atheists best confute—Fancy and Thought! 'Tis these that from the sodLift us! The life which soars above the bruteEver and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's lute!Lo! that grim Merriment of Hatred;[32]—bornOf him,—the Master-Mocker of Mankind,Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen,Voltaire's gay sarcasm seems a smile serene,—Do we not place it in our children's hands,Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled lands?—God's and man's libel in that foul yahoo!—Well, and what mischief can the libel do?O impotence of Genius to belieIts glorious task—its mission from the sky!Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scornOn aught the Man should love or Priest should mourn—And lo! the book, from all its ends beguil'd,A harmless wonder to some happy child!
And now so still! This, Cicero, is thy heart;I hear it beating through each purple line.This is thyself, Anacreon—yet, thou artWreath'd, as in Athens, with the Cnidian vine.I ope thy pages, Milton, and, behold,Thy spirit meets me in the haunted ground!—Sublime and eloquent, as while, of old,"It flamed and sparkled in its crystal bound;"[31]Theseareyourselves—your life of life! The Wise,(Minstrel or Sage)outof their books are clay;Butintheir books, as from their graves, they rise,Angels—that, side by side, upon our way,Walk with and warn us!Hark! the world so loud,And they, the movers of the world, so still!
What gives this beauty to the grave? the shroudScarce wraps the Poet, than at once there ceaseEnvy and Hate! "Nine cities claim him dead,Through which the living Homer begg'd his bread!"And what the charm that can such health distilFrom wither'd leaves—oft poisons in their bloom?We call some books immoral!Do they live?If so, believe me,Timehath made them pure.In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace—God wills that nothing evil shall endure;The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole,As the dust leaves the disembodied soul!Come from thy niche, Lucretius! Thou didst giveMan the black creed of Nothing in the tomb!Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint?No; with a listless eye we pass it o'er,And linger only on the hues that paintThe Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore.None learn from thee to cavil with their God;None commune with thy genius to departWithout a loftier instinct of the heart.Thou mak'st no Atheist—thou but mak'st the mindRicher in gifts which Atheists best confute—Fancy and Thought! 'Tis these that from the sodLift us! The life which soars above the bruteEver and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's lute!Lo! that grim Merriment of Hatred;[32]—bornOf him,—the Master-Mocker of Mankind,Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen,Voltaire's gay sarcasm seems a smile serene,—Do we not place it in our children's hands,Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled lands?—God's and man's libel in that foul yahoo!—Well, and what mischief can the libel do?O impotence of Genius to belieIts glorious task—its mission from the sky!Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scornOn aught the Man should love or Priest should mourn—And lo! the book, from all its ends beguil'd,A harmless wonder to some happy child!
IV.
All books grow homilies by time; they areTemples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, weWhobutfor them, upon that inch of groundWe call "The Present," from the cell could seeNo daylight trembling on the dungeon bar;Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round,And feel the Near less household than the Far!Traverse all space, and number every star,There is no Past, so long as Books shall live!A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes againFor him who seeks yon well; lost cities giveUp their untarnish'd wonders, and the reignOf Jove revives and Saturn:—at our willRise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill;Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe;[33]—alongLeucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song;With Ægypt's Queen once more we sail the Nile,And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile:—Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er,Ope but that page—lo, Babylon once more!
All books grow homilies by time; they areTemples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, weWhobutfor them, upon that inch of groundWe call "The Present," from the cell could seeNo daylight trembling on the dungeon bar;Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round,And feel the Near less household than the Far!Traverse all space, and number every star,There is no Past, so long as Books shall live!A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes againFor him who seeks yon well; lost cities giveUp their untarnish'd wonders, and the reignOf Jove revives and Saturn:—at our willRise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill;Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe;[33]—alongLeucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song;With Ægypt's Queen once more we sail the Nile,And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile:—Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er,Ope but that page—lo, Babylon once more!
V.
Ye make the Past our heritage and home:And is this all? No; by each prophet-sage—No; by the herald souls that Greece and RomeSent forth, like hymns, to greet the Morning StarThat rose on Bethlehem—by thy golden page,Melodious Plato—by thy solemn dreams,World-wearied Tully!—and, above ye all,By THIS, the Everlasting MonumentOf God to mortals, on whose front the beamsFlash glory-breathing day—our lights ye areTo the dark Bourne beyond; in you are sentThe types of Truths whose life isThe To-come;In you soars up the Adam from the fall;In you theFutureas thePastis given—Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth;—Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven,Without one gravestone left upon the Earth?
Ye make the Past our heritage and home:And is this all? No; by each prophet-sage—No; by the herald souls that Greece and RomeSent forth, like hymns, to greet the Morning StarThat rose on Bethlehem—by thy golden page,Melodious Plato—by thy solemn dreams,World-wearied Tully!—and, above ye all,By THIS, the Everlasting MonumentOf God to mortals, on whose front the beamsFlash glory-breathing day—our lights ye areTo the dark Bourne beyond; in you are sentThe types of Truths whose life isThe To-come;In you soars up the Adam from the fall;In you theFutureas thePastis given—Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth;—Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven,Without one gravestone left upon the Earth?
Cosmo Monkhouse.Written for the present collection.
True—there are books and books. There's Gray,For instance, and there's Bacon;There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet,And also Colton's 'Lacon,'With 'Laws of Whist' and those of Libel,And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible.And some are dear as friends, and someWe keep because we need them;And some we ward from worm and thumb,And love too well to read them.My own are poor, and mostly new,But I've an Elzevir or two.That as a gift is prized, the nextFor trouble in the finding;This Aldine for its early text,That Plantin for the binding;This sorry Herrick hides a flower,The record of one perfect hour.But whether it be worth or looksWe gently love or strongly,Such virtue doth reside in booksWe scarce can love them wrongly;To sages an eternal school,A hobby (harmless) to the fool.Nor altogether fool is heWho orders, free from doubt,Those books which "no good libraryShould ever be without,"And blandly locks the well-glazed doorOn tomes that issue never more.Less may we scorn his cases grand,Where safely, surely lingerFair virgin fields of type, unscannedAnd innocent of finger.There rest, preserved from dust accurst,The first editions—and the worst.And least of all should we that writeWith easy jest deride them,Who hope to leave when "lost to sight"The best of us inside them,Dear shrines! where many a scribbler's nameHas lasted—longer than his fame.
True—there are books and books. There's Gray,For instance, and there's Bacon;There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet,And also Colton's 'Lacon,'With 'Laws of Whist' and those of Libel,And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible.
And some are dear as friends, and someWe keep because we need them;And some we ward from worm and thumb,And love too well to read them.My own are poor, and mostly new,But I've an Elzevir or two.
That as a gift is prized, the nextFor trouble in the finding;This Aldine for its early text,That Plantin for the binding;This sorry Herrick hides a flower,The record of one perfect hour.
But whether it be worth or looksWe gently love or strongly,Such virtue doth reside in booksWe scarce can love them wrongly;To sages an eternal school,A hobby (harmless) to the fool.
Nor altogether fool is heWho orders, free from doubt,Those books which "no good libraryShould ever be without,"And blandly locks the well-glazed doorOn tomes that issue never more.
Less may we scorn his cases grand,Where safely, surely lingerFair virgin fields of type, unscannedAnd innocent of finger.There rest, preserved from dust accurst,The first editions—and the worst.
And least of all should we that writeWith easy jest deride them,Who hope to leave when "lost to sight"The best of us inside them,Dear shrines! where many a scribbler's nameHas lasted—longer than his fame.
Arthur J. Munby.Written for the present collection.
Man that is born of woman finds a charmIn that which he is born of. She it isWho moulds him with a frown or with a kissTo good or ill, to welfare or to harm:But, when he has attain'd her soft round armAnd drawn it through his own, and made her his,He through her eyes beholds a wider bliss,As sweet as that she gives him, and as warm.What bliss? We dare not name it: her fond looksAre jealous too; she hardly understands,Girt by her children's laughter or their cries,The stately smooth companionship of books:And yet to her we owe it, to her handsAnd to her heart, that books can make us wise.
Man that is born of woman finds a charmIn that which he is born of. She it isWho moulds him with a frown or with a kissTo good or ill, to welfare or to harm:But, when he has attain'd her soft round armAnd drawn it through his own, and made her his,He through her eyes beholds a wider bliss,As sweet as that she gives him, and as warm.
What bliss? We dare not name it: her fond looksAre jealous too; she hardly understands,Girt by her children's laughter or their cries,The stately smooth companionship of books:And yet to her we owe it, to her handsAnd to her heart, that books can make us wise.
"Edward Danenhill: Book given himby Joseph Wise, April ye27th, 1741,"Arthur J. Munby.was the inscription in a copy of Carew's'Poems' (1651). Written forthe present collection.
A man unknown this volume gave,So long since, to his unknown friend,Ages ago, their lives had end,And each in some obscurest graveLies mixt with earth: none now would careTo ask or who or what they were.But, though these two are underground,Their book is here, all safe and sound;And he who wrote it (yea, and moreThan a whole hundred years before)He, the trim courtier, old Carew,And all the loves he feign'd or knew,Have won from Aphrodite's eyeSome show of immortality.'Tis ever thus; by Nature's willThe gift outlasts the giver still;And Love itself lives not so longAs doth a lover's feeblest song.But doubly hard is that man's case,For whom and for his earnest rhymesNeither his own nor after-timesHave any work, have any place:Who through a hundred years shall findNo echoing voice, no answering mind;And, when this tann'd and tawny pageHas one more century of age,And others buy the book anew,Because they care for old Carew,Not one who reads shall care or knowWhat name was his, who owns it now:But all he wrote and all he didShall be in such oblivion hidAs hides the blurr'd and broken stonesThat cover his forgotten bones.
A man unknown this volume gave,So long since, to his unknown friend,Ages ago, their lives had end,And each in some obscurest graveLies mixt with earth: none now would careTo ask or who or what they were.But, though these two are underground,Their book is here, all safe and sound;And he who wrote it (yea, and moreThan a whole hundred years before)He, the trim courtier, old Carew,And all the loves he feign'd or knew,Have won from Aphrodite's eyeSome show of immortality.'Tis ever thus; by Nature's willThe gift outlasts the giver still;And Love itself lives not so longAs doth a lover's feeblest song.But doubly hard is that man's case,For whom and for his earnest rhymesNeither his own nor after-timesHave any work, have any place:Who through a hundred years shall findNo echoing voice, no answering mind;And, when this tann'd and tawny pageHas one more century of age,And others buy the book anew,Because they care for old Carew,Not one who reads shall care or knowWhat name was his, who owns it now:But all he wrote and all he didShall be in such oblivion hidAs hides the blurr'd and broken stonesThat cover his forgotten bones.
Caroline Norton.From the 'Dream and other Poems.'1840.
Silent companions of the lonely hour,Friends, who can never alter or forsake,Who for inconstant roving have no power,And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,Let me return toyou; this turmoil endingWhich worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought;Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,Fancies, the audible echo of my own,'T will be like hearing in a foreign climeMy native language spoke in friendly tone,And with a sort of welcome I shall dwellOn these, my unripe musings, told so well.
Silent companions of the lonely hour,Friends, who can never alter or forsake,Who for inconstant roving have no power,And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,Let me return toyou; this turmoil endingWhich worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought;Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,Fancies, the audible echo of my own,'T will be like hearing in a foreign climeMy native language spoke in friendly tone,And with a sort of welcome I shall dwellOn these, my unripe musings, told so well.
F. M. P.From the London 'Spectator' ofJanuary 16, 1886.
O finest essence of delicious rest!To bid for some short space the busy millOf anxious, ever-grinding thought be still;And let the weary brain and throbbing breastBe by another's cooling hand caressed.This volume in my hand, I hold a charmWhich lifts me out of reach of wrong or harm.I sail away from trouble; and most blessedOf every blessing, can myself forget:Can rise above the instance low and poorInto the mighty law that governs yet.This hingèd cover, like a well hung door,Shuts out the noises of the jangling day,These fair leaves fan unwelcome thoughts away.
O finest essence of delicious rest!To bid for some short space the busy millOf anxious, ever-grinding thought be still;And let the weary brain and throbbing breastBe by another's cooling hand caressed.This volume in my hand, I hold a charmWhich lifts me out of reach of wrong or harm.I sail away from trouble; and most blessedOf every blessing, can myself forget:Can rise above the instance low and poorInto the mighty law that governs yet.This hingèd cover, like a well hung door,Shuts out the noises of the jangling day,These fair leaves fan unwelcome thoughts away.
Thomas Parnell.Translated from the Latin ofTheodore Beza.
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-dayThe bookworm, ravening beast of prey,Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,As fame reports it, with the gods.Him frantic hunger wildly drivesAgainst a thousand authors' lives:Through all the fields of wit he flies;Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,With horns without, and tusks within,And scales to serve him for a skin.Observe him nearly, lest he climbTo wound the bards of ancient time,Or down the vale of fancy goTo tear some modern wretch below.On every corner fix thine eye,Or ten to one he slips thee by.See where his teeth a passage eat:We'll rouse him from his deep retreat.But who the shelter's forc'd to give?'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live!From leaf to leaf, from song to songHe draws the tadpole form along,He mounts the gilded edge before,He's up, he scuds the cover o'er,He turns, he doubles, there he past,And here we have him, caught at last.Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuseThe sweetest servants of the Muse—Nay, never offer to deny,I took thee in the fact to fly.His rose nipt in every page,My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;By thee my Ovid wounded lies;By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies;Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'dThe work of love in Biddy Floyd;They rent Belinda's locks away,And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.For all, for every single deed,Relentless justice bids thee bleed:Then fall a victim to the NineMyself the priest, my desk the shrine.Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,To pile a sacred altar here:Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain;Pray take your mortal bards again.Come, bind the victim,—there he lies,And here between his numerous eyesThis venerable dust I layFrom manuscripts just swept away.The goblet in my hand I take,For the libation's yet to make:A health to poets! all their daysMay they have bread, as well as praise;Sense may they seek, and less engageIn papers fill'd with party rage.But if their riches spoil their vein,Ye Muses, make them poor again.Now bring the weapon, yonder bladeWith which my tuneful pens are made.I strike the scales that arm thee round,And twice and thrice I print the wound;The sacred altar floats with red,And now he dies, and now he's dead.How like the son of Jove I stand,This Hydra stretch'd beneath the hand!Lay bare the monster's entrails here,And see what dangers threat the year:Ye gods! what sonnet on a wench!What lean translations out of French!'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,S—prints, before the months go round.But hold, before I close the sceneThe sacred altar should be clean.O had I Shadwell's second bays,Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vowI never miss'd your works till now,)I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,That only way you please the Nine:But since I chance to want these two,I'll make the songs of Durfey do.Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,I hang the scales that brac'd it in;I hang my studious morning gown,And write my own inscription down."This trophy from the Python won,This robe, in which the deed was done,These, Parnell, glorying in the featHung on these shelves, the Muses seat.Here Ignorance and Hunger foundLarge realms of wit to ravage round;Here Ignorance and Hunger fellTwo foes in one I sent to hell.Ye poets who my labors seeCome share the triumph all with me!Ye critics, born to vex the Muse,Go mourn the grand ally you lose!"
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-dayThe bookworm, ravening beast of prey,Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,As fame reports it, with the gods.Him frantic hunger wildly drivesAgainst a thousand authors' lives:Through all the fields of wit he flies;Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,With horns without, and tusks within,And scales to serve him for a skin.Observe him nearly, lest he climbTo wound the bards of ancient time,Or down the vale of fancy goTo tear some modern wretch below.On every corner fix thine eye,Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:We'll rouse him from his deep retreat.But who the shelter's forc'd to give?'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live!From leaf to leaf, from song to songHe draws the tadpole form along,He mounts the gilded edge before,He's up, he scuds the cover o'er,He turns, he doubles, there he past,And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuseThe sweetest servants of the Muse—Nay, never offer to deny,I took thee in the fact to fly.His rose nipt in every page,My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;By thee my Ovid wounded lies;By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies;Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'dThe work of love in Biddy Floyd;They rent Belinda's locks away,And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.For all, for every single deed,Relentless justice bids thee bleed:Then fall a victim to the NineMyself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,To pile a sacred altar here:Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain;Pray take your mortal bards again.
Come, bind the victim,—there he lies,And here between his numerous eyesThis venerable dust I layFrom manuscripts just swept away.The goblet in my hand I take,For the libation's yet to make:A health to poets! all their daysMay they have bread, as well as praise;Sense may they seek, and less engageIn papers fill'd with party rage.But if their riches spoil their vein,Ye Muses, make them poor again.
Now bring the weapon, yonder bladeWith which my tuneful pens are made.I strike the scales that arm thee round,And twice and thrice I print the wound;The sacred altar floats with red,And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand,This Hydra stretch'd beneath the hand!Lay bare the monster's entrails here,And see what dangers threat the year:Ye gods! what sonnet on a wench!What lean translations out of French!'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,S—prints, before the months go round.
But hold, before I close the sceneThe sacred altar should be clean.O had I Shadwell's second bays,Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vowI never miss'd your works till now,)I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,That only way you please the Nine:But since I chance to want these two,I'll make the songs of Durfey do.
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,I hang the scales that brac'd it in;I hang my studious morning gown,And write my own inscription down.
"This trophy from the Python won,This robe, in which the deed was done,These, Parnell, glorying in the featHung on these shelves, the Muses seat.Here Ignorance and Hunger foundLarge realms of wit to ravage round;Here Ignorance and Hunger fellTwo foes in one I sent to hell.Ye poets who my labors seeCome share the triumph all with me!Ye critics, born to vex the Muse,Go mourn the grand ally you lose!"
Samuel Minturn Peck.From 'Cap and Bells.' 1886.
Among my books—what rest is thereFrom wasting woes! what balm for care!If ills appall or clouds hang low,And drooping, dim the fleeting show,I revel still in visions rare.At will I breathe the classic air,The wanderings of Ulysses share;Or see the plume of Bayard flowAmong my books.Whatever face the world may wear—If Lillian has no smile to spare,For others let her beauty blow,Such favors I can well forego;Perchance forget the frowning fairAmong my books.
Among my books—what rest is thereFrom wasting woes! what balm for care!If ills appall or clouds hang low,And drooping, dim the fleeting show,I revel still in visions rare.At will I breathe the classic air,The wanderings of Ulysses share;Or see the plume of Bayard flowAmong my books.
Whatever face the world may wear—If Lillian has no smile to spare,For others let her beauty blow,Such favors I can well forego;Perchance forget the frowning fairAmong my books.
Walter Herries Pollock.Written for the present collection.
"Imperious Cæsar dead and turn'd to clayMight stop a hole to keep the wind away."Here the live thought of buried Cæsar's brainHas served a lazy slut to lay the trainThat lights a dunce's fire. Here Homer's seenAll torn or crumpled in the pettish spleenOf some spoilt urchin. Here a leaf from GlanvilIs reft to mark a place in 'On the Anvil.'Here, too, a heavy-blotted Shakspere's pageHolds up an inky mirror to the age;Here looking round you're but too sure to see aHeart-breaking wreck from the 'Via Jacobæa;'Here some rare pamphlet, long a-missing, lurksIn an odd volume of 'Lord Bacon's Works;'Here may you find a Stillingfleet or BlairUsurp the binding of a lost Voltaire;And here a tattered Boyle doth gape ungentlyUpon a damp-disfigured 'Life of Bentley.'Here half a Rabelais jostles for positionThe quarter of a 'Spanish Inquisition;'Here Young's 'Night Thoughts' lie mixed with Swinburne's 'Ballads''Mid scraps of works on Poisons and on Salads;And here a rent and gilt-edged Sterne doth lack a rayOf sun that falls upon a bulging Thackeray;Here—but the tale's too sad at length to tellHow a book-heaven's been turned to a book-hell.
"Imperious Cæsar dead and turn'd to clayMight stop a hole to keep the wind away."Here the live thought of buried Cæsar's brainHas served a lazy slut to lay the trainThat lights a dunce's fire. Here Homer's seenAll torn or crumpled in the pettish spleenOf some spoilt urchin. Here a leaf from GlanvilIs reft to mark a place in 'On the Anvil.'Here, too, a heavy-blotted Shakspere's pageHolds up an inky mirror to the age;Here looking round you're but too sure to see aHeart-breaking wreck from the 'Via Jacobæa;'Here some rare pamphlet, long a-missing, lurksIn an odd volume of 'Lord Bacon's Works;'Here may you find a Stillingfleet or BlairUsurp the binding of a lost Voltaire;And here a tattered Boyle doth gape ungentlyUpon a damp-disfigured 'Life of Bentley.'Here half a Rabelais jostles for positionThe quarter of a 'Spanish Inquisition;'Here Young's 'Night Thoughts' lie mixed with Swinburne's 'Ballads''Mid scraps of works on Poisons and on Salads;And here a rent and gilt-edged Sterne doth lack a rayOf sun that falls upon a bulging Thackeray;Here—but the tale's too sad at length to tellHow a book-heaven's been turned to a book-hell.
Bryan Waller Procter.From 'An Autobiographical(Barry Cornwall.)Fragment.' 1877.
All round the room my silent servants wait,—My friends in every season, bright and dim;Angels and seraphimCome down and murmur to me, sweet and low,And spirits of the skies all come and goEarly and late;All from the old world's divine and distant date,From the sublimer few,Down to the poet who but yester-eveSang sweet and made us grieve,All come, assembling here in order due.And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate,With Erato and all her vernal sighs,Great Clio with her victories elate,Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes.O friends, whom chance and change can never harm,Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die,Within whose folding soft eternal charmI love to lie,And meditate upon your verse that flows,And fertilizes whereso'er it goes,Whether....
All round the room my silent servants wait,—My friends in every season, bright and dim;Angels and seraphimCome down and murmur to me, sweet and low,And spirits of the skies all come and goEarly and late;All from the old world's divine and distant date,From the sublimer few,Down to the poet who but yester-eveSang sweet and made us grieve,All come, assembling here in order due.And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate,With Erato and all her vernal sighs,Great Clio with her victories elate,Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes.O friends, whom chance and change can never harm,Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die,Within whose folding soft eternal charmI love to lie,And meditate upon your verse that flows,And fertilizes whereso'er it goes,Whether....
The sale of the famous Roscoe library,William Roscoe.made necessary by reverses in business,took place in August and September, 1816
As one who, destined from his friends to part,Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile,To share their converse and enjoy their smile,And tempers as he may affliction's dart,—Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguileMy tedious hours, and lighten every toil,I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;For pass a few short years, or days, or hours.And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,And all your sacred fellowship restore;When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
As one who, destined from his friends to part,Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile,To share their converse and enjoy their smile,And tempers as he may affliction's dart,—Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguileMy tedious hours, and lighten every toil,I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;For pass a few short years, or days, or hours.And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,And all your sacred fellowship restore;When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
Francis St. Clair-Erskine,From 'Sonnets.' 1883.Earl of Rosslyn.
Alone, 'midst living works of mighty dead,Poets and Scholars versed in history's lore,With thoughts that reached beyond them and before,I dream, and leave their glorious works unread;Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head.I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still moreI fail when I would delve the depths of yore,And learn old Truths of modern lies instead;The shelves frown on me blackly, with a lifeThat ne'er can die, and helpless to begin,I can but own my weakness, and deploreThis waste, this barren brain, ah! once so rifeWith hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin,Great Ghosts that wander on the Eternal Shore.
Alone, 'midst living works of mighty dead,Poets and Scholars versed in history's lore,With thoughts that reached beyond them and before,I dream, and leave their glorious works unread;Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head.I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still moreI fail when I would delve the depths of yore,And learn old Truths of modern lies instead;The shelves frown on me blackly, with a lifeThat ne'er can die, and helpless to begin,I can but own my weakness, and deploreThis waste, this barren brain, ah! once so rifeWith hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin,Great Ghosts that wander on the Eternal Shore.
One of the excerpts from 'Occasional Poems'John Godfrey Saxe.included in his 'Complete Poems'.
Here, e'en the sturdy democrat may find,Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind;While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown,How Learning's patents abrogate their own.A goodly company and fair to see;Royal plebeians; earls of low degree;Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime;Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime;Crowd here together like the quaint arrayOf jostling neighbors on a market day.Homer and Milton,—can we call them blind?—Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind;Shakspere, who calmly looked creation through,"Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new;"Plato the sage, so thoughtful and serene,He seems a prophet by his heavenly mien;Shrewd Socrates, whose philosophic powerXantippe proved in many a trying hour;And Aristophanes, whose humor runIn vain endeavor to be-"cloud" the sun;Majestic Æschylus, whose glowing pageHolds half the grandeur of the Athenian stage;Pindar, whose odes, replete with heavenly fire,Proclaim the master of the Grecian lyre;Anacreon, famed for many a luscious lineDevote to Venus and the god of wine.I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubtIf one be better with them or without,—Unless he use them wisely, and indeed,Knows the high art of what and how to read,At learning's fountain it is sweet to drink,But 'tis a nobler privilege to think;And oft from books apart, the thirsting mindMay make the nectar which it cannot find,'T is well to borrow from the good and great;'T is wise to learn; 't is godlike to create!
Here, e'en the sturdy democrat may find,Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind;While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown,How Learning's patents abrogate their own.A goodly company and fair to see;Royal plebeians; earls of low degree;Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime;Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime;Crowd here together like the quaint arrayOf jostling neighbors on a market day.Homer and Milton,—can we call them blind?—Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind;Shakspere, who calmly looked creation through,"Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new;"Plato the sage, so thoughtful and serene,He seems a prophet by his heavenly mien;Shrewd Socrates, whose philosophic powerXantippe proved in many a trying hour;And Aristophanes, whose humor runIn vain endeavor to be-"cloud" the sun;Majestic Æschylus, whose glowing pageHolds half the grandeur of the Athenian stage;Pindar, whose odes, replete with heavenly fire,Proclaim the master of the Grecian lyre;Anacreon, famed for many a luscious lineDevote to Venus and the god of wine.
I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubtIf one be better with them or without,—Unless he use them wisely, and indeed,Knows the high art of what and how to read,At learning's fountain it is sweet to drink,But 'tis a nobler privilege to think;And oft from books apart, the thirsting mindMay make the nectar which it cannot find,'T is well to borrow from the good and great;'T is wise to learn; 't is godlike to create!
Clinton Scollard.From 'With Reed and Lyre.'1886.
From the oriels one by one,Slowly fades the setting sun;On the marge of afternoonStands the new-born crescent moon.In the twilight's crimson glowDim the quiet alcoves grow.Drowsy-lidded Silence smilesOn the long deserted aisles;Out of every shadowy nookSpirit faces seem to look.Some with smiling eyes, and someWith a sad entreaty dumb;He who shepherded his sheepOn the wild Sicilian steep,He above whose grave are setSprays of Roman violet;Poets, sages—all who wroughtIn the crucible of thought.Day by day as seasons glideOn the great eternal tide,Noiselessly they gather thusIn the twilight beauteous,Hold communion each with each,Closer than our earthly speech,Till within the east are bornPremonitions of the morn!
From the oriels one by one,Slowly fades the setting sun;On the marge of afternoonStands the new-born crescent moon.In the twilight's crimson glowDim the quiet alcoves grow.Drowsy-lidded Silence smilesOn the long deserted aisles;Out of every shadowy nookSpirit faces seem to look.Some with smiling eyes, and someWith a sad entreaty dumb;He who shepherded his sheepOn the wild Sicilian steep,He above whose grave are setSprays of Roman violet;Poets, sages—all who wroughtIn the crucible of thought.Day by day as seasons glideOn the great eternal tide,Noiselessly they gather thusIn the twilight beauteous,Hold communion each with each,Closer than our earthly speech,Till within the east are bornPremonitions of the morn!
Frank Dempster Sherman.From the 'Century Magazine,'November, 1885.
A cup of coffee, eggs, and rollsSustain him on his morning strolls:Unconscious of the passers-by,He trudges on with downcast eye;He wears a queer old hat and coat,Suggestive of a style remote;His manner is preoccupied,—A shambling gait, from side to side.For him the sleek, bright-windowed shopIs all in vain,—he does not stop.His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelvesWhere musty volumes hide themselves,—Rare prints of poetry and prose,And quaintly lettered folios,—Perchance a parchment manuscript,In some forgotten corner slipped,Or monk-illumined missal boundIn vellum with brass clasps around;These are the pictured things that throngHis mind the while he walks along.A dingy street, a cellar dim,With book-lined walls, suffices him.The dust is white upon his sleeves;He turns the yellow, dog-eared leavesWith just the same religious lookThat priests give to the Holy Book.He does not heed the stifling airIf so he find a treasure there.He knows rare books, like precious wines,Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines;For him delicious flavors dwellIn books as in old Muscatel;He finds in features of the typeA clew to prove the grape was ripe.And when he leaves this dismal place,Behold, a smile lights up his face!Upon his cheeks a genial glow,—Within his hand Boccaccio,A first edition worn with age,"Firenze" on the title-page.
A cup of coffee, eggs, and rollsSustain him on his morning strolls:Unconscious of the passers-by,He trudges on with downcast eye;He wears a queer old hat and coat,Suggestive of a style remote;His manner is preoccupied,—A shambling gait, from side to side.For him the sleek, bright-windowed shopIs all in vain,—he does not stop.His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelvesWhere musty volumes hide themselves,—Rare prints of poetry and prose,And quaintly lettered folios,—Perchance a parchment manuscript,In some forgotten corner slipped,Or monk-illumined missal boundIn vellum with brass clasps around;These are the pictured things that throngHis mind the while he walks along.A dingy street, a cellar dim,With book-lined walls, suffices him.The dust is white upon his sleeves;He turns the yellow, dog-eared leavesWith just the same religious lookThat priests give to the Holy Book.He does not heed the stifling airIf so he find a treasure there.He knows rare books, like precious wines,Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines;For him delicious flavors dwellIn books as in old Muscatel;He finds in features of the typeA clew to prove the grape was ripe.And when he leaves this dismal place,Behold, a smile lights up his face!Upon his cheeks a genial glow,—Within his hand Boccaccio,A first edition worn with age,"Firenze" on the title-page.
Robert Southey.Written at Keswick in 1818.
My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old;My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in weal,And seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been dedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead, with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn;Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead, anonMy place with them shall be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.
My days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old;My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,And seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been dedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead, with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn;Partake their hopes and fears,And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead, anonMy place with them shall be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.
Robert Louis Stevenson.From 'A Child's Garden of Verses.' 1885.
Summer fading, winter comes—Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,Window robins, winter rooks,And the picture story-books.Water now is turned to stoneNurse and I can walk upon;Still we find the flowing brooksAnd the picture story-books.All the pretty things put by,Wait upon the children's eyeSheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,In the picture story-books.We may see how all things are,Seas and cities, near and far,And the flying fairies' looks,In the picture story-books.How am I to sing your praise,Happy chimney-corner days,Sitting safe in nursery nooks,Reading picture story-books?
Summer fading, winter comes—Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,Window robins, winter rooks,And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stoneNurse and I can walk upon;Still we find the flowing brooksAnd the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by,Wait upon the children's eyeSheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are,Seas and cities, near and far,And the flying fairies' looks,In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise,Happy chimney-corner days,Sitting safe in nursery nooks,Reading picture story-books?
A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions,men, women, and books.Sir John Davys.
Richard Henry Stoddard.From the 'Atlantic Monthly,' June, 1877.