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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 Ma.n.u.script Time shall full surely unfold, Though with Black-Letter shaded, or s.h.i.+ning 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 t.i.tle 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns.' 1678._
Bright books: perspectives on our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning in s.h.i.+ning 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 surpa.s.s'd, Sheds light and love--unfathomed, undefined.
THE LIBRARY.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. _Sung at the opening of the Library at Haverhill, Ma.s.s._
"Let there be Light!" G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed, 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."
