But other feelings occupied my heart, And other words found utterance from my lips, When that day's work was finished, and my feet Again turned homeward--alteration strange Of feeling, with a better, humbler mind. For I was thankful now ... ... that thus I was Compelled, as by a gentle violence Not in the pages of dead books alone, Nor merely in the fair page nature shows, But in the living page of human life To look and learn--not merely left to spin Fine webs and woofs around me like the worm, Till in mine own coil I had hid myself And quite shut out the light of common day, And common air by which men breathe and live. * * * * * It was brought home unto my heart of hearts There was no doom more pitiable than his, Who at safe distance hears life's stormy waves, Which break for ever on a rugged shore, In which are shipwrecked mariners, for their lives Contending some, some momently sucked up, But as a gentle murmur afar off To soothe his sleep, and lull him in his dreams: Who, while he boasts he has been building up A palace for himself, in sooth has reared What shall be first his prison, then his tomb. R. C. TRENCH. _Anti-Gnosticus._ THE MIGHTY DEAD Studious let me sit, And hold high converse with the mighty dead-- Sages of ancient time, as gods revered, As gods beneficent, who blessed mankind With arts and arms, and humanized a world. Roused at the inspiring thought, I throw aside The long-lived volume. J. THOMSON. _The Seasons._ THE MESSAGE OF BOOKS