In a Library (Randall)

Tread softly here, as ye would treadIn presence of the honored dead,With reverent step and low-bowed head.

Speak low - as low ye would speakBefore some saint of grandeur meek,Whose favor ye would humbly seek.

Within these walls the very airSeems weighted with a fragrance rare,Like incense burned at ev'ning prayer.

Here may we sit and converse holdWith those whose names in ages oldWere in the book of fame enrolled.

Here under poet's power intenseWe leave this world of sordid sense,Where mortals strive with problems dense.

And mount to realms where fance, free,Above our poor humanity,Roams in a joyous ecstasy.

Of if through history's maze we tread,The hero, patriot, long since dead,Whose great heart for his country bled.

Seems once again to work and fight,In superstition's darkest night,For God, his fellows, and the right.

Enough! mere words can never tellThe influence of the grateful spellWhich seems among these books to dwell.