A Book for All Readers Part 27

12.

Robert Burns followed next with Thomas Carlyle, Jean Paul paired with Coleridge, too, While De Foe elbowed Goldsmith, the master of style, And Fielding and Schiller made two.

13.

Rousseau with his eloquent, marvellous style, And Voltaire, with his keen, witty pen, Victor Hugo so grand, though repellent the while, And Dumas and Balzac again.

14.

Dear Thackeray came in his happiest mood, And stayed until midnight was done, Bulwer-Lytton, and Reade, and Kingsley and Hood, And d.i.c.kens, the master of fun.

15.

George Eliot, too, with her matter-full page, And Byron, and Browning, and Keats, While Sh.e.l.ley and Tennyson joined youth and age, And Wordsworth the circle completes.

16.

Then followed a group of America's best, With Irving, and Bryant, and Holmes, While Bancroft and Motley unite with the rest, And Th.o.r.eau with Whittier comes.

17.

With his Raven in hand dreamed on Edgar Poe, And Longfellow sweet and serene, While Prescott, and Ticknor, and Emerson too, And Hawthorne and Lowell were seen.

18.

While thus the a.s.sembly of witty and wise Rejoiced the librarian's sight, Ere the wonderful vision had fled from his eyes, From above shone a heavenly light:

19.

And solemn and sweet came a voice from the skies, "All battles and conflicts are done, The temple of Knowledge shall open all eyes, And law, faith, and reason are one!"

When the radiant dawn of the morning broke, From his glorious dream the librarian woke.

THE LIBRARY.

That place that does contain my books, My books, the best companions, is to me, A glorious court, where hourly I converse With the old sages and philosophers; And sometimes, for variety I confer With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The bard of every age and clime, Of genius fruitful and of soul sublime, Who from the glowing mint of fancy pours No spurious metal, fused from common ores, But gold to matchless purity refined, And stamped with all the G.o.dhead in his mind.

JUVENAL.

Books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good; Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

WORDSWORTH.

QUAINT LINES ON A BOOK-WORM.

The Bokeworme sitteth in his celle, He studyethe all alone, And burnethe oute the oile, 'Till ye midnight hour is gone Then gethe he downe upon his bedde, Ne mo watch will he a-keepe, He layethe his heade on ye pillowe, And eke he tryes to sleepe.

Then swyfte there cometh a vision grimme, And greetythe him sleepynge fair, And straighte he dreameth of grislie dreames, And dreades fellowne and rayre.

Wherefore, if cravest life to eld Ne rede longe uppe at night, But go to bed at Curfew bell And ryse wythe mornynge's lyte.

BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.

In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter _bise_, He book-hunts while the loungers fly,-- He book-hunts, though December freeze; In breeches baggy at the knees, And heedless of the public jeers, For these, for these, he h.o.a.rds his fees,-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is _Spes_!

But ah! the fabled treasure flees; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease,-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

Prince, all the things that tease and please,-- Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, jeers and tears, What are they but such toys as these-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs? ANDREW LANG.

'Tis in books the chief Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well.

BUCKINGHAM.

Books should to one of these four ends conduce: For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.

SIR JOHN DENHAM.

MY BOOKS.

Oh, happy he who, weary of the sound Of throbbing life, can shut his study door, Like Heinsius, on it all, to find a store Of peace that otherwise is never found!

Such happiness is mine, when all around My dear dumb friends in groups of three or four Command my soul to linger on the sh.o.r.e Of those fair realms where they reign monarchs crowned.

To-day the strivings of the world are naught, For I am in a land that glows with G.o.d, And I am in a path by angels trod.

Dost ask what book creates such heavenly thought?

Then know that I with Dante soar afar, Till earth shrinks slowly to a tiny star.

J. WILLIAMS.

THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY.

Speak low! tread softly through these halls; Here genius lives enshrined; Here reign in silent majesty The monarchs of the mind.

A mighty spirit host they come From every age and clime; Above the buried wrecks of years They breast the tide of time.

Here shall the poets chant for thee Their sweetest, loftiest lays, And prophets wait to guide thy steps In Wisdom's pleasant ways.

Come, with these G.o.d-anointed kings Be thou companion here; And in the mighty realm of mind Thou shalt go forth a peer!

ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA.