There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul.

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’tis To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.

There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away

I am glad you have an hour for books, those enthralling friends, the immortalities...

The Martyr PoetsThe Martyr Poets — did not tell — But wrought their Pang in syllable — That when their mortal name be numb — Their mortal fate — encourage Some — The Martyr Painters — never spoke — Bequeathing — rather — to their WorkThat when their conscious fingers cease — Some seek in Art — the Art of Peace —

The dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul--BOOKS.

There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.