Part 5
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 array Of 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 power Xantippe proved in many a trying hour; And Aristophanes, whose humor run In vain endeavor to be-"cloud" the sun; Majestic Æschylus, whose glowing page Holds 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 line Devote to Venus and the god of wine.
I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubt If 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 mind May 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!
IN THE LIBRARY.
CLINTON SCOLLARD. _From 'With Reed and Lyre.' 1886._
From the oriels one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon. In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow. Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long deserted aisles; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look. Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages--all who wrought In the crucible of thought. Day by day as seasons glide On the great eternal tide, Noiselessly they gather thus In the twilight beauteous, Hold communion each with each, Closer than our earthly speech, Till within the east are born Premonitions of the morn!
THE BOOK-HUNTER.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. _From the 'Century Magazine,' November, 1885._
A cup of coffee, eggs, and rolls Sustain 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 shop Is all in vain,--he does not stop. His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves Where 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 bound In vellum with brass clasps around; These are the pictured things that throng His 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 leaves With just the same religious look That priests give to the Holy Book. He does not heed the stifling air If 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 dwell In books as in old Muscatel; He finds in features of the type A 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.
THE LIBRARY.
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 feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been dedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn; Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them shall be, And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.
PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER.
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 stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks And the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye Sheep 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?
COMPANIONS.
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._
We have companions, comrade mine: Jolly good fellows, tried and true, Are filling their cups with the Rhenish wine, And pledging each other, as I do you. Never a man in all the land But has, in his hour of need, a friend, Who stretches to him a helping hand And stands by him to the bitter end. If not before, there is comfort then, In the strong companionship of men.
But better than that, old friend of mine, Is the love of woman, the life of life, Whether in maiden's eyes it shine, Or melts in the tender kiss of wife; A heart contented to feel, not know, That finds in the other its sole delight; White hands that are loath to let us go, The tenderness that is more than might! On earth below, in heaven above, Is there anything better than woman's love?
I do not say so, companion mine, For what, without it, would I be here? It lightens my troubles, like this good wine, And, if I must weep, sheds tear for tear! But books, old friends that are always new, Of all good things that we know are best; They never forsake us, as others do, And never disturb our inward rest. Here is truth in a world of lies, And all that in man is great and wise!
Better than men and women, friend, That are dust, though dear in our joy and pain, Are the books their cunning hands have penned, For they depart, but the books remain; Through these they speak to us what was best In the loving heart and the noble mind: All their royal souls possessed Belongs forever to all mankind! When others fail him, the wise man looks To the sure companionship of books.
THE BOOK OF LIFE.
_A Bibliographical Melody, printed in_ RICHARD THOMSON. _1820 at the press of John Johnson, as a gift to the members of the Roxburghe Club._
That Life is a Comedy oft hath been shown, By all who Mortality's changes have known; But more like a Volume its actions appear, Where each Day is a Page and each Chapter a year. 'Tis a Manuscript Time shall full surely unfold, Though with Black-Letter shaded, or shining with gold; The Initial, like Youth, glitters bright on its Page, But its Text is as dark--as the gloom of Old Age. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest.
Though the Title stands first it can little declare The Contents which the Pages ensuing shall bear; As little the first day of Life can explain The succeeding events which shall glide in its train, The Book follows next, and, delighted, we trace An Elzevir's beauty, a Guttemberg's grace; Thus on pleasure we gaze with as raptured an eye, Till, cut off like a Volume imperfect, we die! Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest.
Yet e'en thus imperfect, complete, or defaced, The skill of the Printer is still to be traced; And though death bend us early in life to his will, The wise hand of our Author is visible still. Like the Colophon lines is the Epitaph's lay, Which tells of what age and what nation our day, And, like the Device of the Printer, we bear The form of the Founder, whose Image we wear. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest.
The work thus completed its Boards shall inclose, Till a Binding more bright and more beauteous it shows; And who can deny, when Life's Vision hath past, That the dark Boards of Death shall surround us at last. Yet our Volume illumed with fresh splendors shall rise, To be gazed at by Angels, and read to the skies, Reviewed by its Author, revised by his Pen, In a fair new Edition to flourish again. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest.
ON CERTAIN BOOKS.
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. _From 'Sonnets.' 1864._
Faith and fixt hope these pages may peruse, And still be faith and hope; but, O ye winds! Blow them far off from all unstable minds, And foolish grasping hands of youth! Ye dews Of heaven! be pleased to rot them where they fall, Lest loitering boys their fancies should abuse, And they get harm by chance, that cannot choose; So be they stain'd and sodden, each and all! And if, perforce, on dry and gusty days, Upon the breeze some truant leaf should rise, Brittle with many weathers, to the skies, Or flit and dodge about the public ways-- Man's choral shout, or organ's peal of praise Shall shake it into dust, like older lies.
TO HIS BOOKS.
HENRY VAUGHAN. _From 'Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems and Pious Ejaculations.' 1678._
Bright books: perspectives on our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning in shining thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls in their milkie way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarged spirits, kind heaven's white decoys! Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers Which in commerce with light spend all their hours; Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. Beneath you all is dark and a dead night, Which whoso lives in wants both health and sight. By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a store Have we of books as bees, of herbs, or more; And the great task to try, then know, the good, To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare scant performance. For man dies Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies. But you were all choice flowers; all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best; And I amidst you all am turned to weed! Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be Content to know what was too much for thee!
LITERATURE AND NATURE.
SAMUEL WADDINGTON. _Written for the present collection._
'Mid Cambrian heights around Dolgelly vale, What time we scaled great Cader's rugged pile, Or loitered idly where still meadows smile Beside the Mawddach-stream, or far Cynfael-- Nor tome, nor rhythmic page, nor pastoral tale, Our summer-sated senses would beguile; Or lull our ears to melody, the while The voiceful rill ran lilting down the dale. In London town once more--behold, once more The old delight returns! 'Mid heights how vast, In Milton's verse, through what dim paths we wind; How Keats's canvas glows, and Wordsworth's lore, As tarn or torrent pure, by none surpass'd, Sheds light and love--unfathomed, undefined.
THE LIBRARY.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. _Sung at the opening of the Library at Haverhill, Mass._
"Let there be Light!" God spake of old, And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame Of nature, life and order came.
Faint was the light at first that shone On giant fern and mastodon, On half-formed plant and beast of prey, And man as rude and wild as they.
Age after age, like waves o'erran The earth, uplifting brute and man; And mind, at length, in symbols dark Its meanings traced on stone and bark.
On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll, On plastic clay and leathern scroll, Man wrote his thoughts; the ages passed, And lo! the Press was found at last!
Then dead souls woke; the thoughts of men Whose bones were dust revived again; The cloister's silence found a tongue, Old prophets spake, old poets sung.
And here, to-day, the dead look down, The kings of mind again we crown; We hear the voices lost so long, The sage's word, the sibyl's song.
Here Greek and Roman find themselves Alive along these crowded shelves; And Shakspere treads again his stage, And Chaucer paints anew his age.
As if some Pantheon's marbles broke Their stony trance, and lived and spoke, Life thrills along the alcoved hall, The lords of thought awake our call.
THE COUNTRY SQUIRE.
TOMAS YRIARTE. _An anonymous translation of one of the 'Literary Fables.'_
A country squire, of greater wealth than wit (For fools are often blessed with fortune's smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnished it In splendid style.
"One thing is wanting," said a friend; "for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use."
"'Tis true; but 'zounds!" replied the squire with glee, "The lumber-room in yonder northern wing (I wonder I ne'er thought of it) will be The very thing.
"I'll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire's abode."
"And when the whole is ready, I'll dispatch My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town."
But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomps of cabinet and shelf, The booby squire repented him, and cried Unto himself:--
"This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguy price."
"Now as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood."
"It shall be so, I'll give the shaven deal A coat of paint--a colorable dress, To look like calf or vellum, and conceal Its nakedness."
"And, gilt and lettered with the author's name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be ('tis all the same), Assembled there."
The work was done; the simulated hoards Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In binding some; and some, of course, in _boards_, Where all were wood.
From bulky folios down to slender twelves The choicest tomes, in many an even row Displayed their lettered backs upon the shelves, A goodly show.
With such a stock as seemingly surpassed The best collection ever formed in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain?
What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conned their titles, that the squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man?
_Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and binding, take the hint, and sell His costly library--for painted books Would serve as well._
OLD BOOKS.
_From the appendix of 'How to Read_ ANON. _a Book in the Best Way.' New York, n. d._
I must confess I love old books! The dearest, too, perhaps most dearly; Thick, clumpy tomes, of antique looks, In pigskin covers fashioned queerly.
Clasped, chained, or thonged, stamped quaintly too, With figures wondrous strange, or holy Men and women, and cherubs, few Might well from owls distinguish duly.
I love black-letter books that saw The light of day at least three hundred Long years ago; and look with awe On works that live, so often plundered.
I love the sacred dust the more It clings to ancient lore, enshrining Thoughts of the dead, renowned of yore, Embalmed in books, for age declining.
Fit solace, food, and friends more sure To have around one, always handy, When sinking spirits find no cure In news, election brawls, or brandy.
In these old books, more soothing far Than balm of Gilead or Nepenthè, I seek an antidote for care-- Of which most men indeed have plenty.
"Five hundred times at least," I've said-- My wife assures me--"I would never Buy more old books;" yet lists are made, And shelves are lumbered more than ever.
Ah! that our wives could only see How well the money is invested In these old books, which seem to be By them, alas! so much detested.
There's nothing hath enduring youth, Eternal newness, strength unfailing, Except old books, old friends, old truth, That's ever battling--still prevailing.
'T is better in the past to live Than grovel in the present vilely, In clubs, and cliques, where placemen hive, And faction hums, and dolts rank highly.
To be enlightened, counselled, led, By master minds of former ages, Come to old books--consult the dead-- Commune with silent saints and sages.
Leave me, ye gods! to my old books-- Polemics yield to sects that wrangle-- Vile "parish politics" to folks Who love to squabble, scheme, and jangle.
Dearly beloved old pigskin tomes! Of dingy hue--old bookish darlings! Oh, cluster ever round my rooms, And banish strifes, disputes, and snarlings.
=Appendix= ________________
THE LIBRARY
BY
GEORGE CRABBE
THE LIBRARY.
_In want and danger, the unknown poet sent this poem to Edmund_ GEORGE CRABBE. _Burke, who saw its merit, befriended its author, and procured its publication._