All round the room my silent servants wait,-- My friends in every season, bright and dim; Angels and seraphim Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low, And spirits of the skies all come and go Early and late; From the old world's divine and distant date, From the sublimer few, Down to the poet who but yester-eve Sang sweet and made us grieve, All come, assembling here in order due. And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate, With Erato and all her vernal sighs, Great Clio with her victories elate, Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes. Oh friends, whom chance and change can never harm, Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die, Within whose folding soft eternal charm I love to lie, And meditate upon your verse that flows, And fertilizes whereso'er it goes.... B. W. PROCTER. _An Autobiographical Fragment._ TO MY BOOKS Silent companions of the lonely hour, Friends who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,-- Let me return to _you_, this turmoil ending, Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought; Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well. THE HON. CAROLINE NORTON. ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS Ye dear companions of my silent hours, Whose pages oft before my eyes would strew So many sweet and variegated flowers-- Dear Books, awhile, perhaps for ay, adieu! The dark cloud of misfortune o'er me lours: No more by winter's fire--in summer's bowers, My toil-worn mind shall be refreshed by you: We part! sad thought! and while the damp devours Your leaves, and the worm slowly eats them through, Dull Poverty and its attendant ills, Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care, And the world's cold neglect, which surest kills, Must be my bitter doom; yet I shall bear Unmurmuring, for my good perchance these evils are. J. H. LEIGH HUNT. TO MY BOOKS ON PARTING WITH THEM