Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight By Charles Mackay |
| 3 |  |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX.. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. | XXXVIII. IN THE LIBRARY.
|
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| CIII. |
| CIV. |
| CV. |
| CVI. |
| CVII. |
| CVIII. |
| CIX. |
| CX. |
| CXI. |
| CXII. |
| CXIII. |
| CXIV. |
| CXV. |
| CXVI. |
| CXVII. |
| CXVIII. |
| CXIX. |
| CXX. |
| CXXI. |
| CXXII. |
| CXXIII. |
| CXXIV. |
| CXXV. |
| CXXVI. |
 | CXXVII. |
| 3 | CXXVIII. |
| CXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
| CXXXII. |
 | Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight |  |
47
XXXVIII. IN THE LIBRARY.
I spend my days among the immortal dead,
For ever young,—for ever fresh and free;
I walk with Shakspeare's light upon my head,
Or sit with Byron by the stormy sea;
I see with Homer's eyes the days of old,
Or trace with Gibbon's lightning-feathered pen
An Empire's fall; and wonder, as I'm told,
If mightier Britain, lacking mighty men,
Shall sink like Rome into the depths forlorn
And leave no Empire to her after-born,
Because her manhood rotted to decay;
And sighing, hope, “Far distant be the day!”
For ever young,—for ever fresh and free;
I walk with Shakspeare's light upon my head,
Or sit with Byron by the stormy sea;
I see with Homer's eyes the days of old,
Or trace with Gibbon's lightning-feathered pen
An Empire's fall; and wonder, as I'm told,
If mightier Britain, lacking mighty men,
Shall sink like Rome into the depths forlorn
And leave no Empire to her after-born,
Because her manhood rotted to decay;
And sighing, hope, “Far distant be the day!”
The frivolous living talk not with my soul,
I weary of their senseless jest and jeer,
And strive to keep within a calm control
My scorn and sorrow for the insincere;
And if I fail a while, I strive to dip
My spirit in the Ocean of old Time,
My happy Books,—where, sailing like a ship,
I visit, conquering, every shore and clime!
I'm lonely in the crowd; amid my tomes
I have the choice of rich ancestral homes,
Where I can dwell with an exultant mind
Pleased with myself, at peace with all mankind.
I weary of their senseless jest and jeer,
And strive to keep within a calm control
My scorn and sorrow for the insincere;
And if I fail a while, I strive to dip
My spirit in the Ocean of old Time,
My happy Books,—where, sailing like a ship,
I visit, conquering, every shore and clime!
48
I have the choice of rich ancestral homes,
Where I can dwell with an exultant mind
Pleased with myself, at peace with all mankind.
| Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight | |