"From divers lands and ages,
Books ceiling-high uprise;
But yonder tome of verses
Above them all I prize.
"For Horace I nor Pindar,
Sappho nor Ovid care.
Poesy's loftier spirit
My volume harbours there.
"When its sweet contents bear me
Even to heaven's domain,
Then would I in that moment
Intone a gentle strain!"
Ha, the library is where they gather?
Tidings have I heard of these same scholars. . .
Thus it is!
Quoth then the second brother:
"And old is my folio yonder,
I read from it gladly alway;
Time has gnawed at the year of its making.
Who printed it? No man shall say.
"When I until late in the night-time
On the scribe's deep ponderings pore,
My gaze can encompass clearly
All nature's wonderful lore!"
Deeply then a solemn voice commences,
Through the hall the clamour of it reaches,
Setting o'er my head the walls aquiver:
