Writing class
The Bookworm
I own no grand baronial hall,
No pastures rich in wavering corn;
Leave unto me my love for books,
And wealth and rank I laugh to scorn.
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christo, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
The world of books – how broad, how grand!
Within its volumes, dark and old,
What priceless gems of living thought
Their beauties to the mind unfold.
What flowers of genius suffuse
Their sweetness o’er its yellow page!
Immortal words of truth and fire,
Echoing down from age to age.
On wintry nights, when howls the wind,
And earth lies ‘neath a shroud of snow,
I draw the blind and light the lamp,
And in the world of books I go.
I read of glorious Italy –
Around her name what mem’ries throng;
The land of beauty and of art,
The home of laughter, love, and song;
Until methinks I hear the oars
Cleaving the bright Venetian tide,
Inhale the scent of southern flowers,
And see the gay gondolas glide!
Or through Verona’s ancient streets,
On Fancy’s silken wings I go –
The streets where, in the dim dark past,
Walked Juliet and Romeo.
I read of Greece, downfallen Greece,
Rev’rence and awe her scenes command;
Though she has fallen like a star,
Her light is shed in every land.
I read of old historic France,
Where raged the Revolution wild, -
The fountains, streets and boulevards
Of Paris, her vivacious child.
Then, drawing near to England’s isle,
I read of Scotland’s purple glens,
And, ah! The pictures I behold
Through Fancy’s bright enchanted lens.
I see fair Melrose Abbey, ‘neath
The pale sad light of waning moon;
I stand upon the Brig of Ayr,
I wander by the Banks 0’ Doon.
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christ, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
For I am heir to an estate
That Fortune cannot take from me,
The treasure-rooms of Intellect,
With gates ajar eternally.
The world of books, where thirsty souls
Drink deep from Learning’s crystal rills;
Where glad perpetual Summer pipes
Upon the verdant wind-swept hills.
(The Bookworm by Ethel Carnie. 1800s. Submitted by Sue Petty)
I own no grand baronial hall,
No pastures rich in wavering corn;
Leave unto me my love for books,
And wealth and rank I laugh to scorn.
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christo, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
The world of books – how broad, how grand!
Within its volumes, dark and old,
What priceless gems of living thought
Their beauties to the mind unfold.
What flowers of genius suffuse
Their sweetness o’er its yellow page!
Immortal words of truth and fire,
Echoing down from age to age.
On wintry nights, when howls the wind,
And earth lies ‘neath a shroud of snow,
I draw the blind and light the lamp,
And in the world of books I go.
I read of glorious Italy –
Around her name what mem’ries throng;
The land of beauty and of art,
The home of laughter, love, and song;
Until methinks I hear the oars
Cleaving the bright Venetian tide,
Inhale the scent of southern flowers,
And see the gay gondolas glide!
Or through Verona’s ancient streets,
On Fancy’s silken wings I go –
The streets where, in the dim dark past,
Walked Juliet and Romeo.
I read of Greece, downfallen Greece,
Rev’rence and awe her scenes command;
Though she has fallen like a star,
Her light is shed in every land.
I read of old historic France,
Where raged the Revolution wild, -
The fountains, streets and boulevards
Of Paris, her vivacious child.
Then, drawing near to England’s isle,
I read of Scotland’s purple glens,
And, ah! The pictures I behold
Through Fancy’s bright enchanted lens.
I see fair Melrose Abbey, ‘neath
The pale sad light of waning moon;
I stand upon the Brig of Ayr,
I wander by the Banks 0’ Doon.
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christ, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
For I am heir to an estate
That Fortune cannot take from me,
The treasure-rooms of Intellect,
With gates ajar eternally.
The world of books, where thirsty souls
Drink deep from Learning’s crystal rills;
Where glad perpetual Summer pipes
Upon the verdant wind-swept hills.
(The Bookworm by Ethel Carnie. 1800s. Submitted by Sue Petty)
