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THE POET'S BOOKS.
Talk with the firefly when it gilds the eve,
And catch the murmur of the waving boughs,
Where hides the slumbering nest.
List, when old night,
That dark-robed queen, disbands the muffled stars,
And boldly writeth on the vaulted sky
Its Maker's awful name. When weary day,
Casting her deeds into gray twilight's lap,
Doth sleep, forgetful of the Judge, be there,
A student of its annal, if perchance
Its varying burden, fitted to thy harp,
May yield true wisdom.
Take thy choicest books
From Nature's library, and be thy creed
Such soul-entrancing poesy as makes
Virtue more lovely, and inspires the hymn
That seraphs set to music.
