  Millions have been and passed from view Benignity who never knew; No aspiration theirs, nor aim; Existence soulless as the clay From whence they sprang, what right have they To eulogy or fame? So multitudes have been forgot— But drones or dunces, good for naught; Like clinging parasites or burrs Taking from others all they dared, Yet little they for others cared Except as pilferers. Not so with that majestic man The all-round antiquarian— No model his nor parallel; From selfishness inviolate Are his achievements good and great, And thus shall ages tell. A love for the antiquities His honest hold, his birthright is! And things unheard of or unread, To him are treasures more than gold, Ay, than his daily bread. At neither ghost nor ghoul aghast He echoes voices of the past, And tones like melancholy knells Of years departed to his ear Are sweeter than of kindred dear, Sweeter than Florimel's. He delves through centuries of dust To resurrect some unknown bust, A torso, or a goddess whole; Maybe like Venus, minus arms— Haply to find those missing charms; But not the lost, lost soul. He dotes on aborigines Who lived in caves and hollow trees, And barters for their trinkets rare; Exchanging with those dusky breeds For arrow-heads and shells and beads A scalplock of his hair. Had he been born—thus he laments— Along with other great events, Coeval say with Noah's flood, With Hittites—or with any race Of blue archaic blood! Much he adores that Pilgrim flock, The same that split old Plymouth rock, Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing. Devoid of metre, sense, and tune, Who but a Puritanic loon Could have devised the thing? He revels in a pedigree, The sprouting of a noble tree 'Way back in prehistoric times; And for the "Family Record" true Of scions all that ever grew Would give a billion dimes. There is a language fossils speak: 'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek, But quite as dead and antiquate Its silent syllables, and cold; But ah, what meanings they unfold, What histories relate! The earthquake is his best ally— It shows up things he cannot buy, And gives him raw material Enough to beat that ancient "Dutch Republic's Rise and Fall." A piece of bone can never lie: A rib, a femur, or a thigh Is but a dislocated sign Of something hybrid, half and half Betwixt a crocodile and calf— Maybe a porcupine. The stately "Antiquarium" Is his emporium, his home. He wonders if when he is gone Will people look with mournful pride On him done up and classified, And the right label on. He dreams of an emblazoned page, The calendar of every age Down from Creation's primal dawn; With archetypes of spears and bones, And tons of undeciphered stones Its illustrations drawn. Labor a blessing, not a curse, His hunting ground the Universe, So much the more his nature craves What mighty wonders there must be Down in those hidden caves! So toils this dauntless man, alert Amid the ruins and the dirt, That other men to endless day Themselves uplifted from the clod May see, and learn and know that God Is greater far than they. And thus, of mighty ken and plan, The all-round antiquarian Pursues his happy ministry; And on the world's progressive track Advances, always going back— Back to antiquity. |
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