Small need for tribute unto thee,
To let the fancy roam—
To thee, who hast by many a hearth
An altar and a home:
Each little bookshelf where thy works
Are carefully enshrined,
There is thy trophy, there is left
Thy heritage of mind.
How many such delightful hours
Rise on our saddened mood,
When we have owed to thee and thine
The charm of solitude!
How eagerly we caught the book!
How earnestly we read!
How actual seemed the living scenes
Thy vivid colours spread!
And not to one dominion bound
Has been thy varied power;
In many a distant scene enjoyed—
In many a distant hour,
In childhood turning from its play,
In manhood, youth, and age.
All bent beneath the enchanter's wand,
All owned that spell—thy page.
Read by the glimmering firelight,
In the greenwood alone,
Amid the gathered circle—who
But hath thy magic known?
Laid in the cottage window-seat,
Fanned by the open air,
Left by the palette and the desk,
Thou hast thy readers there.
Actual as friends we know and love,
The beings of thy mind
Are, like events of real life,
In memory enshrined:
We seem as if we heard their voice,
As if we knew their face—
Familiar with their inward thoughts,
Their beauty and their grace.
