Ballads of Books Part 15

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 G.o.dlike 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 aeschylus, 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bler 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 G.o.dlike 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 pa.s.sers-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 ma.n.u.script, In some forgotten corner slipped, Or monk-illumined missal bound In vellum with bra.s.s 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 t.i.tle-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 grat.i.tude.

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 n.o.ble 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.