Poems (David)/The Bodleian

by Edith Mary David

THE BODLEIAN.

ENTERING there through yon low open door,
Which bears its famous title written o'er,
Joyfully I mount thy stairs, and there stand,
And feel thou art the glory of our land!
With grateful heart, and yet bewildered brain,
Thy walls proud sanctuary I greet again.
The glorious "missals," so enrich'd with gold,—
With varied tints, and yet in age so old!
Where e'er I turn, where e'er my footsteps glide,
Still massive piles are seen on every side;
Yet, as I musing stand, I can but think
How low our richest lore doth ever sink—
Compared with that which is half concealed,
And by a mightier Power to us reveal'd!
It is Thine Hand, O God, alone can frame
Such lowly beings to uphold Thy Name.
Man holds a short and ever changing sway;—
Thine, Glorious Lord! doth never know decay!
Alas! how many a young and fever'd head
Has labour'd on for wealth, whose fame is dead;
And lived to learn that Fortune's golden smile
Is but a deep and subtle changing wile!
Their glorious dreams have faded fast away,
To worthless dross and ever swift decay.