I would that we were only readers now, And wrote no more, or in rare heats of soul Sweated out thoughts when the o'er-burden'd brow Was powerless to control.

Then would all future books be small and few, And, freed of dross, the soul's refined gold; So should we have a chance to read the new, Yet not forego the old.

But as it is, Lord help us, in this flood Of daily papers, books, and magazines!

We scramble blind as reptiles in the mud, And know not what it means.

Is it the myriad sp.a.w.n of vagrant tides, Whose growth would overwhelm both sea and sh.o.r.e, Yet often necessary loss, provides Sufficient and no more?

Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds, And from the stones, the thorns and fertile soil, Only enough to serve the world's great needs Rewards the sower's toil?

Is it all needed for the varied mind?

Gives not the teeming press a book too much-- Not one, but in its dense neglect shall find Some needful heart to touch?

Ah, who can say that even this blade of gra.s.s No mission has--superfluous as it looks?

Then wherefore feel oppressed and cry, Alas, There are too many books!

FROM THE FLY-LEAF OF THE ROWFANT MONTAIGNE (FLORIO, 1603).

FREDERICK LOCKER. _Written for the present collection._

Of yore, when books were few and fine, Will Shakspere cut these leaves of mine, But when he pa.s.sed I went astray Till bought by Pope, a gift for Gay.

Then, later on, betwixt my pages A nose was poked--the Bolt-Court Sage's.

But though the Fame began with Rawleigh, And had not dwindled with Macaulay, Though still I tincture many tomes Like Lowell's pointed sense, and Holmes', For me the halcyon days have past-- I'm here, and with a dunce at last.

MY BOOKS.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. _Written in December, 1881._

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, So I behold these books upon their shelf, My ornaments and arms of other days; Not wholly useless, though no longer used, For they remind me of my other self, Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways, In which I walked, now clouded and confused.

THE SOULS OF BOOKS.

EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. _From 'Earlier Poems.'_

I.

Sit here and muse!--it is an antique room-- High-roof'd, with cas.e.m.e.nts, through whose purple pane Unwilling Daylight steals amidst the gloom, Shy as a fearful stranger.

There THEY reign (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 Sense Of Beauty--Music and the Minstrel's wreath!-- What were our wanderings if without your goals?

As air and light, the glory ye dispense Becomes our being--who of us can tell What he had been, had Cadmus never taught The 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 heard The various murmur of the laboring crowd, How still, within those archive-cells interr'd, The Calm Ones reign!--and yet they rouse the loud Pa.s.sions and tumults of the circling world!

From them, how many a youthful Tully caught The zest and ardor of the eager Bar; From them, how many a young Ambition sought Gay 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 art Wreath'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]

These _are_ yourselves--your life of life! The Wise, (Minstrel or Sage) _out_ of their books are clay; But _in_ their 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 shroud Scarce wraps the Poet, than at once there cease Envy and Hate! "Nine cities claim him dead, Through which the living Homer begg'd his bread!"

And what the charm that can such health distil From wither'd leaves--oft poisons in their bloom?

We call some books immoral! _Do they live?_ If so, believe me, TIME hath made them pure.

In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace-- G.o.d 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 give Man the black creed of Nothing in the tomb!

Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint?

No; with a listless eye we pa.s.s it o'er, And linger only on the hues that paint The Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore.

None learn from thee to cavil with their G.o.d; None commune with thy genius to depart Without a loftier instinct of the heart.

Thou mak'st no Atheist--thou but mak'st the mind Richer in gifts which Atheists best confute-- FANCY AND THOUGHT! 'Tis these that from the sod Lift us! The life which soars above the brute Ever and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's lute!

Lo! that grim Merriment of Hatred;[32]--born Of 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?-- G.o.d's and man's libel in that foul yahoo!-- Well, and what mischief can the libel do?

O impotence of Genius to belie Its glorious task--its mission from the sky!

Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scorn On 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!

[31] 'Comus.'

[32] 'Gulliver's Travels.'

IV.

All books grow homilies by time; they are Temples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, we Who _but_ for them, upon that inch of ground We call "THE PRESENT," from the cell could see No 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 s.p.a.ce, and number every star, There is no Past, so long as Books shall live!

A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again For him who seeks yon well; lost cities give Up their untarnish'd wonders, and the reign Of Jove revives and Saturn:--at our will Rise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill; Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe;[33]--along Leucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song; With aegypt'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!

[33] Plut. in 'Vit. Cim.'

V.