Why, here comes rain!  The sky grows dark,
—­Was that the roll of thunder?  Hark! 
The shop affords a safe retreat,
A chair extends its welcome seat,
The tradesman has a civil look
(I’ve paid, impromptu, for my book),
The clouds portend a sudden shower,
I’ll read my purchase for an hour.

..............

What have I rescued from the shelf? 
A Boswell, writing out himself! 
For though he changes dress and name,
The man beneath is still the same,
Laughing or sad, by fits and starts,
One actor in a dozen parts,
And whatsoe’er the mask may be,
The voice assures us, This is he.

          I say not this to cry him clown;
          I find my Shakespeare in his clown,
          His rogues the self-same parent own;
          Nay!  Satan talks in Milton’s tone! 
          Where’er the ocean inlet strays,
          The salt sea wave its source betrays,
          Where’er the queen of summer blows,
          She tells the zephyr, “I’m the rose!”

          And his is not the playwright’s page;
          His table does not ape the stage;
          What matter if the figures seen
          Are only shadows on a screen,
          He finds in them his lurking thought,
          And on their lips the words he sought,
          Like one who sits before the keys
          And plays a tune himself to please.

          And was he noted in his day? 
          Read, flattered, honored?  Who shall say? 
          Poor wreck of time the wave has cast
          To find a peaceful shore at last,
          Once glorying in thy gilded name
          And freighted deep with hopes of fame,
          Thy leaf is moistened with a tear,
          The first for many a long, long year!

          For be it more or less of art
          That veils the lowliest human heart
          Where passion throbs, where friendship glows,
          Where pity’s tender tribute flows,
          Where love has lit its fragrant fire,
          And sorrow quenched its vain desire,
          For me the altar is divine,
          Its flame, its ashes,—­all are mine!

          And thou, my brother, as I look
          And see thee pictured in thy book,
          Thy years on every page confessed
          In shadows lengthening from the west,
          Thy glance that wanders, as it sought
          Some freshly opening flower of thought,
          Thy hopeful nature, light and free,
          I start to find myself in thee!

          Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn
          In leather jerkin stained and torn,
          Whose talk has filled my idle hour
          And made me half forget the shower,
          I’ll do at least as much for you,
          Your coat I’ll patch, your gilt renew,
          Read you,—­perhaps,—­some other time. 
          Not bad, my bargain!  Price one dime! 
          Not bad, my bargain!  Price one dime!