Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
General
Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
American literature
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watch’d that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
* * * * *
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadow’d main,――
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wreck’d is the ship of pearl!
And every chamber’d cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies reveal’d,――
Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:――
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
* * * * *
OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR.
Mr. Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. The
following sketches are characteristic of his happy and varied
style.
OLD AGE, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Professor, this is Old Age.
_Old Age._――Mr. Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you
for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down
the street together?
_Professor_ (drawing back a little).――We can talk more quietly,
perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be
acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently
considers you an entire stranger?
_Old Age._――I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s
recognition until I have known him at least _five years_.
_Professor._――Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as
that?
_Old Age._――I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am
afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.
_Professor._――Where?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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