In books I find companionship, they are
My household gods, and naught shall wholly bar
Their voices from me; from their precious pages
I quaff the immortality of ages.
They are the spirits of the dead, not dumb,
From ancient tombs and monuments they come
To hold communion with the living; they,
While nations perish and the world grows gray,
Their regal power and pristine beauty keep,
Despite the havoc, and inglorious sleep
Of centuries that bore a crimson hue,—
Despite the flames which they have travelled through,
Unscathed they hold their sceptres, meek they bear
These royal dignities;—like light and air
They enter, silver-shod, the humblest door,
And breathe their benedictions on the poor.
Ye avatars, true saviours of the world,
Round whom the hopes of wisest souls are curled,
Be mine through life, in pain, or pleasure, mine!
If near me still your pleasant faces shine
The skies may lower—upon my thorny path
The heavens may pour their cataracts of wrath,
I need not falter, need not hold my breath,
Nor tremble at the menaces of Death.