Classic Poem

Ay , come ye hither to this pleasant land,
For here in truth are vines of Engaddi,
Here golden urns of manna to thine hand,
And rocks whence honey flows deliciously;
Udders from which comes frothing copiously
The milk of life, ears filled with sweetest grains,
And fig-trees knowing no sterility;
Here Paradisal streams make rich the plains,
O! come and bathe therein, ye book-enamoured swains.

Is thy desire for Bibles Mazarin?
Here are the very types that printed them.
Or doth Dutch Coster thy allegiance win?
Here are the holy shrines of Haarlem.
Sigh you to touch the extremest healing hem
Of " Golden Legend " or of " Game of Chess " ?
Here are such stores as you shall straigh contemn,
The paltry " fragments " some of us caress,
And more, it shall be yours to touch that sacred press

Love you colossi of the Plantin mould?
Here in his quaint old print-rooms may you dream,
Pull at the presses of his men of old,
Muse o'er the proof-sheets of some school-man's theme
Garnered in ancient drawers; and you may deem
The typographici on holiday,
And that to-morrow the old rooms will teem
With the old life, in the old busy way —
Just as if all the years had never slipped away.