Poems (David)/The Bodleian
THE BODLEIAN.
ENTERING there through yon low open door,Which bears its famous title written o'er,Joyfully I mount thy stairs, and there stand,And feel thou art the glory of our land!With grateful heart, and yet bewildered brain,Thy walls proud sanctuary I greet again.The glorious "missals," so enrich'd with gold,—With varied tints, and yet in age so old!Where e'er I turn, where e'er my footsteps glide,Still massive piles are seen on every side;Yet, as I musing stand, I can but thinkHow low our richest lore doth ever sink—Compared with that which is half concealed,And by a mightier Power to us reveal'd!It is Thine Hand, O God, alone can frameSuch lowly beings to uphold Thy Name.Man holds a short and ever changing sway;—Thine, Glorious Lord! doth never know decay!Alas! how many a young and fever'd headHas labour'd on for wealth, whose fame is dead;And lived to learn that Fortune's golden smileIs but a deep and subtle changing wile!Their glorious dreams have faded fast away,To worthless dross and ever swift decay.