William J. Long

by William J. Long

The last thing we find in making a book is to know what to put first.—Pascal

When an author has finished his history, after months or years of happy work, there comes a dismal hour when he must explain its purpose and apologize for its shortcomings.

  (Not a Lesson, but an Invitation)

  I sleep, yet I love to be wakened, and love to see 
  The fresh young faces bending over me; 
  And the faces of them that are old, I love them too, 
  For these, as well, in the days of their youth I knew.

  Then the warrior, battle-tried, touched the sounding glee-wood: 
  Straight awoke the harp's sweet note; straight a song uprose, 
  Sooth and sad its music. Then from hero's lips there fell 
  A wonder-tale, well told.

  For out of olde feldes, as men seith, 
    Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer te yere; 
  And out of olde bokes, in good feith, 
    Cometh all this newe science that men lere.

                Chaucer, “Parliament of Foules”

  This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 
  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
  This other Eden, demi-paradise, 
  This fortress built by Nature for herself 
  Against infection and the hand of war, 

  Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour. 
     England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
     Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, 
  Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
  Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

  In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold: 
  Alike fantastic if too new or old. 
  Be not the first by whom the new are tried, 
  Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

                  Pope, “An Essay on Criticism”

  Two voices are there; one is of the sea, 
  One of the mountains; each a mighty voice: 
  In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
  They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

             Wordsworth, “Sonnet to Switzerland”