XXVII. In A Library. 2.

By Christopher Pearse Cranch

A miracle — that man should learn to fill
These little vessels with his boundless soul;
Should through these arbitrary signs control
The world, and scatter broadcast at his will
His unseen thought, in endless transcript still
Fast multiplied o’er lands from pole to pole
By magic art; and, as the ages roll,
Still fresh as streamlets from the Muses’ hill.
Yet in these alcoves tranced, the lords of thought
Stand bound as by enchantment — signs or words
Have none to break the silence. None but they
Their mute proud lips unlock, who here have brought
The key. Them as their masters they obey.
For them they talk and sing like uncaged birds.

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