TO HIS BOOK.

What solace would those books afford,In gold and vellum cover,Could men but say them word for wordWho never turn them over!Books that must know themselves by heartAs by endowment vital,Could they their truths to us impartNot stopping with the title!Line after line their wisdom flows,Page after page repeating;Yet never on our ears bestowsA single sound of greeting.As thus they lie upon the shelves,Such wisdom in their pages,Do they rehearse it to themselves,Or rest like silent sages?One book we know such fun invokes,As well were worth the telling:Must it not chuckle o'er the jokesThat it is ever spelling?And for the Holy Bible there,It greets us with mild teaching;Though no one its contents may hear,Does it not go on preaching?

What solace would those books afford,In gold and vellum cover,Could men but say them word for wordWho never turn them over!

Books that must know themselves by heartAs by endowment vital,Could they their truths to us impartNot stopping with the title!

Line after line their wisdom flows,Page after page repeating;Yet never on our ears bestowsA single sound of greeting.

As thus they lie upon the shelves,Such wisdom in their pages,Do they rehearse it to themselves,Or rest like silent sages?

One book we know such fun invokes,As well were worth the telling:Must it not chuckle o'er the jokesThat it is ever spelling?

And for the Holy Bible there,It greets us with mild teaching;Though no one its contents may hear,Does it not go on preaching?

Robert Herrick.Prefixed to 'Hesperides.' 1648.

While thou didst keep thy candor undefiled,Dearly I loved thee, as my first-born child;But when I sent thee wantonly to roamFrom house to house, and never stay at home;I brake my bonds of love, and bade thee go,Regardless whether well thou sped'st or no,On with thy fortunes then, whate'er they be;If good I'll smile, if bad I'll sigh for thee.

Robert Herrick.

Make haste away, and let one beA friendly patron unto thee;Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lieTorn for the use of pastery;Or see thy injured leaves serve wellTo make loose gowns for mackerel;Or see the grocers, in a trice,Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.

Imitated by Austin Dobson from theQ. Horatius Flaccus.'Epistles,' i. 20, for the presentcollection.

For mart and street you seem to pineWith restless glances, Book of mine!Still craving on some stall to stand,Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand.You chafe at locks, and burn to quitYour modest haunt and audience fit,For hearers less discriminate.I reared you up for no such fate.Still, if youmustbe published, go;But mind, you can't come back, you know!"What have I done?"—I hear you cry,And writhe beneath some critic's eye;'What did I want?'—when, scarce polite,They do but yawn, and roll you tight.And yet, methinks, if I may guess(Putting aside your heartlessnessIn leaving me, and this your home),You should find favor, too, at Rome.That is, they'll like you while you're young.When you are old, you'll pass amongThe Great Unwashed,—then thumbed and sped,Be fretted of slow moths, unread,Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,Or Utica, for banishment!And I, whose counsel you disdain,At that your lot shall laugh amain,Wryly, as he who, like a fool,Pushed o'er the cliff his restive mule.Stay, there is worse behind. In ageThey e'en may take your babbling pageIn some remotest "slum" to teachMere boys the rudiments of speech!But go. When on warm days you seeA chance of listeners, speak of me.Tell them I soared from low estate,A freedman's son, to higher fate(That is, make up to me in worthWhat you must take in point of birth);Then tell them that I won renownIn peace and war, and pleased the Town;Paint me as early gray, and oneLittle of stature, fond of sun,Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,Or was, the year that over usBoth Lollius ruled and Lepidus.

"What have I done?"—I hear you cry,And writhe beneath some critic's eye;'What did I want?'—when, scarce polite,They do but yawn, and roll you tight.And yet, methinks, if I may guess(Putting aside your heartlessnessIn leaving me, and this your home),You should find favor, too, at Rome.That is, they'll like you while you're young.When you are old, you'll pass amongThe Great Unwashed,—then thumbed and sped,Be fretted of slow moths, unread,Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,Or Utica, for banishment!And I, whose counsel you disdain,At that your lot shall laugh amain,Wryly, as he who, like a fool,Pushed o'er the cliff his restive mule.Stay, there is worse behind. In ageThey e'en may take your babbling pageIn some remotest "slum" to teachMere boys the rudiments of speech!But go. When on warm days you seeA chance of listeners, speak of me.Tell them I soared from low estate,A freedman's son, to higher fate(That is, make up to me in worthWhat you must take in point of birth);Then tell them that I won renownIn peace and war, and pleased the Town;Paint me as early gray, and oneLittle of stature, fond of sun,Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,Or was, the year that over usBoth Lollius ruled and Lepidus.

Found by Mr. Alexander Ireland inLeigh Hunt.the London 'Examiner' of December24, 1815, and not anywhere includedin the poet's collected works.

Were I to name, out of the times gone by,The poets dearest to me, I should say,Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way;Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye;Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high;Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play;Horace for chatting with, from day to day;Shakspere for all, but most society.But which take with me, could I take but one?Shakspere, as long as I was unoppressedWith the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser;But did I wish, out of the common sun,To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest,And dream of things far off and healing,—Spenser.

But which take with me, could I take but one?Shakspere, as long as I was unoppressedWith the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser;But did I wish, out of the common sun,To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest,And dream of things far off and healing,—Spenser.

Willis Fletcher Johnson.From the Boston 'Transcript.'

On my study shelves they stand,Well known all to eye and hand,Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold,In morocco rich and old.Some in paper, plain and cheap,Some in muslin, calf, and sheep;Volumes great and volumes small,Ranged along my study wall;But their contents are past findingBy their size or by their binding.There is one with gold agleam,Like the Sangreal in a dream,Back and boards in every partTriumph of the binder's art;Costing more, 'tis well believed,Than the author e'er received.But its contents? Idle tales,Flappings of a shallop's sails!In the treasury of learningScarcely worth a penny's turning.Here's a tome in paper plain,Soiled and torn and marred with stain,Cowering from each statelier bookIn the darkest, dustiest nook.Take it down, and lo! each pageBreathes the wisdom of a sage:Weighed a thousand times in gold,Half its worth would not be told,For all truth of ancient storyCrowns each line with deathless glory.On my study shelves they stand;But my study walls expand,As thought's pinions are unfurled,Till they compass all the world.Endless files go marching by,Men of lowly rank and high,Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned,Some in homespun, fortune-scorned;But God's scales that all are weighed inHeed not what each man's arrayed in!

There is one with gold agleam,Like the Sangreal in a dream,Back and boards in every partTriumph of the binder's art;Costing more, 'tis well believed,Than the author e'er received.But its contents? Idle tales,Flappings of a shallop's sails!In the treasury of learningScarcely worth a penny's turning.

Here's a tome in paper plain,Soiled and torn and marred with stain,Cowering from each statelier bookIn the darkest, dustiest nook.Take it down, and lo! each pageBreathes the wisdom of a sage:Weighed a thousand times in gold,Half its worth would not be told,For all truth of ancient storyCrowns each line with deathless glory.

On my study shelves they stand;But my study walls expand,As thought's pinions are unfurled,Till they compass all the world.Endless files go marching by,Men of lowly rank and high,Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned,Some in homespun, fortune-scorned;But God's scales that all are weighed inHeed not what each man's arrayed in!

This is from the third of the poet's booksBen Jonson.of epigrams. Bucklersbury was thestreet most affected by grocers andapothecaries.

Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well,Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell,Use mine so too; I give thee leave; but crave,For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have,To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;Not offered, as it made suit to be bought;Nor have my title-leaf on posts or walls,Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make callsFor termers, or some clerk-like serving-man,Who scarce can spell thy hard names; whose knight less can.If without these vile arts it will not sell,Send it to Bucklersbury, there 't will well.

This is the eighty-sixth of the poet's firstbook of epigrams, and, like its immediateBen Jonson.predecessor, it was addressedto a gentleman bound in bonds offriendship to many of the men ofgenius of his time.

When I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looksUpon thy well-made choice of friends and books;Then do I love thee, and behold thy endsIn making thy friends books, and thy books friends:Now must I give thy life and deed the voiceAttending such a study, such a choice;Where, though 't be love that to thy praise doth move,It was a knowledge that begat that love.

Charles Lamb.Written in 1824 for the daughter of hisfriend Bernard Barton.

Little Book, surnamed ofwhite,Clean as yet and fair to sight,Keep thy attribution right.Never disproportioned scrawl;Ugly blot, that's worse than all;On thy maiden clearness fall!In each letter, here designed,Let the reader emblemed findNeatness of the owner's mind.Gilded margins count a sin,Let thy leaves attraction winBy the golden rules within;Saying fetched from sages old;Laws which Holy Writ unfold,Worthy to be graved in gold:Lighter fancies not excluding;Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,Sometimes mildly interluding,Amid strains of graver measure:Virtue's self hath oft her pleasureIn sweet Muses' groves of leisure.Riddles dark, perplexing sense;Darker meanings of offence;What butshades—he banished hence.Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,Candid meanings, best expressMind of quiet Quakeress.

Little Book, surnamed ofwhite,Clean as yet and fair to sight,Keep thy attribution right.

Never disproportioned scrawl;Ugly blot, that's worse than all;On thy maiden clearness fall!

In each letter, here designed,Let the reader emblemed findNeatness of the owner's mind.

Gilded margins count a sin,Let thy leaves attraction winBy the golden rules within;

Saying fetched from sages old;Laws which Holy Writ unfold,Worthy to be graved in gold:

Lighter fancies not excluding;Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,Sometimes mildly interluding,

Amid strains of graver measure:Virtue's self hath oft her pleasureIn sweet Muses' groves of leisure.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense;Darker meanings of offence;What butshades—he banished hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,Candid meanings, best expressMind of quiet Quakeress.

A. Lang.From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880.

In torrid heats of late July,In March, beneath the bitterbise,He book-hunts while the loungers fly,—He book-hunts, though December freeze;In breeches baggy at the knees,And heedless of the public jeers,For these, for these, he hoards his fees,—Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.No dismal stall escapes his eye,He turns o'er tomes of low degrees,There soiled Romanticists may lie,Or Restoration comedies;Each tract that flutters in the breezeFor him is charged with hopes and fears,In mouldy novels fancy seesAldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!With restless eyes that peer and spy,Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,In dismal nooks he loves to pry,Whose motto evermore isSpes!But ah! the fabled treasure flees;Grown rarer with the fleeting years,In rich men's shelves they take their ease,Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

No dismal stall escapes his eye,He turns o'er tomes of low degrees,There soiled Romanticists may lie,Or Restoration comedies;Each tract that flutters in the breezeFor him is charged with hopes and fears,In mouldy novels fancy seesAldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

With restless eyes that peer and spy,Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,In dismal nooks he loves to pry,Whose motto evermore isSpes!But ah! the fabled treasure flees;Grown rarer with the fleeting years,In rich men's shelves they take their ease,Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

ENVOY.

Prince, all the things that tease and please,Fame, love, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,What are they but such toys as these—Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?

A. Lang.From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880.

While others are asking for beauty or fame,Or praying to know that for which they should pray,Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,Or chasing the Muses the weary and gray,The sage has found out a more excellent way,—To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,And his humble petition puts up day by day,For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,And crave from the light of his stithy a ray;Philosophers kneel to the God without name,Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours,—But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.Oh grant me a life without pleasure or blame(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their dayWith a speed to which that of the tempest is tame).Oh grant me a house by the beach of a bay,Where the waves can be surly in winter, and playWith the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,And crave from the light of his stithy a ray;Philosophers kneel to the God without name,Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours,—But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Oh grant me a life without pleasure or blame(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their dayWith a speed to which that of the tempest is tame).Oh grant me a house by the beach of a bay,Where the waves can be surly in winter, and playWith the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

ENVOY.

Gods, give or withhold it! Your "yea" and your "nay"Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:But lifeisworth living, and here we would stayFor a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

A. Lang.From 'Rhymes à la Mode.' 1885.

Thereisa Heaven, or here, or there,—A Heaven there is, for me and you,Where bargains meet for purses spare,Like ours, are not so far and few.Thuanus' bees go humming throughThe learned groves, 'neath rainless skies,O'er volumes old and volumes new,Within that Bookman's Paradise!There treasures bound for LongepierreKeep brilliant their morocco blue,There Hookes' 'Amanda' is not rare,Nor early tracts upon Peru!Racine is common as Rotrou,No Shakspere Quarto search defies,And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,Within that Bookman's Paradise!There's Eve,—not our first mother fair,—But Clovis Eve, a binder true;Thither does Bauzonnet repair,Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!But never come the cropping crew,That dock a volume's honest size,Nor they that "letter" backs askew,Within that Bookman's Paradise!

There treasures bound for LongepierreKeep brilliant their morocco blue,There Hookes' 'Amanda' is not rare,Nor early tracts upon Peru!Racine is common as Rotrou,No Shakspere Quarto search defies,And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,Within that Bookman's Paradise!

There's Eve,—not our first mother fair,—But Clovis Eve, a binder true;Thither does Bauzonnet repair,Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!But never come the cropping crew,That dock a volume's honest size,Nor they that "letter" backs askew,Within that Bookman's Paradise!

ENVOY.

Friend, do not Heber and De Thou,And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,La chasse au bouquinstill pursueWithin that Bookman's Paradise?

Ballade en guise de rondeau, written forA. Lang.the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker'sbooks.

The Rowfant books, how fair they show,The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,Print, autograph, portfolio!Back from the outer air they call,The athletes from the Tennis ball,This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,—Would I could sing them, one and all,—The Rowfant books!The Rowfant books! In sun and snowThey're dear, but most when tempests fall;The folio towers above the rowAs once, o'er minor prophets,—Saul!What jolly jest books, and what small"Dear dumpy Twelves" to fill the nooks.You do not find on every stallThe Rowfant books!The Rowfant books! These long agoWere chained within some College hall;These manuscripts retain the glowOf many a colored capital;While yet the satires keep their gall,While the Pastissier puzzles cooks,Theirs is a joy that does not pall,—The Rowfant books!

The Rowfant books! In sun and snowThey're dear, but most when tempests fall;The folio towers above the rowAs once, o'er minor prophets,—Saul!What jolly jest books, and what small"Dear dumpy Twelves" to fill the nooks.You do not find on every stallThe Rowfant books!

The Rowfant books! These long agoWere chained within some College hall;These manuscripts retain the glowOf many a colored capital;While yet the satires keep their gall,While the Pastissier puzzles cooks,Theirs is a joy that does not pall,—The Rowfant books!

ENVOY.

The Rowfant books,—ah, magicalAs famed Armida's golden looks,They hold the Rhymer for their thrall,—The Rowfant books!

A. Lang.Written for the catalogue of Mr. FrederickLocker's books.

I mind me of the Shepherd's saw,For, when men spoke of Heaven, quoth he,"It's everything that's bright and braw,ButBourhope'sgood enough for me."Among the green deep bosomed hillsThat guard St. Mary's Loch it lies,The silence of the pastures fillsThat yeoman's homely paradise!Enough for him his mountain lake,His glen the burn goes singing through;AndRowfant, when the thrushes wake,Might well seem Paradise to you!For all is old, and tried, and dear,And all is fair, and all aboutThe brook that murmurs from the mereIs dimpled with the rising trout.And when the skies of shorter daysAre dark, and all the paths are mire,How kindly o'er yourBooksthe blazeSports from the cheerful study fire;O'er Quartos, where our Fathers readEntranced, the Book of Shakspere's play,O'er all that Poe has dreamed of dread,And all that Herrick sang of gay!Rare First Editions, duly prized,Among them dearest far I rateThe tome whereWalton'shand revisedHis magical receipts for bait.Happy, who rich in toys like theseForgets a weary nation's ills,Who, from his study window seesThe circle of the Sussex hills!But back to town my Muse must fly,And taste the smoke, and list to themWho cry the News, and seem to cry(With each Gladstonian victory),Woe, woe unto Jerusalem![20]

I mind me of the Shepherd's saw,For, when men spoke of Heaven, quoth he,"It's everything that's bright and braw,ButBourhope'sgood enough for me."

Among the green deep bosomed hillsThat guard St. Mary's Loch it lies,The silence of the pastures fillsThat yeoman's homely paradise!

Enough for him his mountain lake,His glen the burn goes singing through;AndRowfant, when the thrushes wake,Might well seem Paradise to you!

For all is old, and tried, and dear,And all is fair, and all aboutThe brook that murmurs from the mereIs dimpled with the rising trout.

And when the skies of shorter daysAre dark, and all the paths are mire,How kindly o'er yourBooksthe blazeSports from the cheerful study fire;

O'er Quartos, where our Fathers readEntranced, the Book of Shakspere's play,O'er all that Poe has dreamed of dread,And all that Herrick sang of gay!

Rare First Editions, duly prized,Among them dearest far I rateThe tome whereWalton'shand revisedHis magical receipts for bait.

Happy, who rich in toys like theseForgets a weary nation's ills,Who, from his study window seesThe circle of the Sussex hills!

But back to town my Muse must fly,And taste the smoke, and list to themWho cry the News, and seem to cry(With each Gladstonian victory),Woe, woe unto Jerusalem![20]

A. Lang.From 'Longman's Magazine,' July, 1886.

Suppose, when now the house is dumb,When lights are out, and ashes fall,—Suppose their ancient owners comeTo claim our spoils of shop and stall,Ah me! within the narrow hallHow strange a mob would meet and go,What famous folk would haunt them all,Octavo, quarto, folio!The great Napoleon lays his handUpon this eagle-headed N,That marks for his a pamphlet bannedBy all but scandal-loving men,—A libel from some nameless denOf Frankfort—Arnaud, à la Sphère,Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,Lies o'er the loves of Molière.[21]Another shade—he does not see"Boney," the foeman of his race—The great Sir Walter, this is heWith that grave homely Border face.He claims his poem of the chaseThat rang Benvoirlich's valley through;Andthis, that doth the lineage traceAnd fortunes of the bold Buccleuch;[22]For these were his, and these he gaveTo one who dwelt beside the Peel,That murmurs with its tiny waveTo join the Tweed at Ashestiel.Now thick as motes the shadows wheel,And find their own, and claim a shareOf books wherein Ribou did deal,Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.[23]What famous folk of old are here!A royal duke comes down to us,And greatly wants his Elzevir,His Pagan tutor, Lucius.[24]And Beckford claims an amorousOld heathen in morocco blue;[25]And who demands EobanusBut stately Jacques Auguste de Thou![26]They come, the wise, the great, the true,They jostle on the narrow stair,The frolic Countess de Verrue,Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre,The new and elder dead are there—The lords of speech, and song, and pen,Gambetta,[27]Schlegel,[28]and the rareDrummond of haunted Hawthornden.[29]Ah, and with those, a hundred more,Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot:Brave 'Smiths' and 'Thompsons' by the score,Scrawled upon many a shabby 'lot.'This play-book was the joy of Pott[30]—Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves.Our names, like his, remembered not,Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!

The great Napoleon lays his handUpon this eagle-headed N,That marks for his a pamphlet bannedBy all but scandal-loving men,—A libel from some nameless denOf Frankfort—Arnaud, à la Sphère,Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,Lies o'er the loves of Molière.[21]

Another shade—he does not see"Boney," the foeman of his race—The great Sir Walter, this is heWith that grave homely Border face.He claims his poem of the chaseThat rang Benvoirlich's valley through;Andthis, that doth the lineage traceAnd fortunes of the bold Buccleuch;[22]

For these were his, and these he gaveTo one who dwelt beside the Peel,That murmurs with its tiny waveTo join the Tweed at Ashestiel.Now thick as motes the shadows wheel,And find their own, and claim a shareOf books wherein Ribou did deal,Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.[23]

What famous folk of old are here!A royal duke comes down to us,And greatly wants his Elzevir,His Pagan tutor, Lucius.[24]And Beckford claims an amorousOld heathen in morocco blue;[25]And who demands EobanusBut stately Jacques Auguste de Thou![26]

They come, the wise, the great, the true,They jostle on the narrow stair,The frolic Countess de Verrue,Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre,The new and elder dead are there—The lords of speech, and song, and pen,Gambetta,[27]Schlegel,[28]and the rareDrummond of haunted Hawthornden.[29]

Ah, and with those, a hundred more,Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot:Brave 'Smiths' and 'Thompsons' by the score,Scrawled upon many a shabby 'lot.'This play-book was the joy of Pott[30]—Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves.Our names, like his, remembered not,Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!

At least in pleasant companyWe bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit;A man may turn a page, and sigh,Seeing one's name, to think of it.Beauty, or Poet, Sage, or Wit,May ope our book, and muse awhile,And fall into a dreaming fit,As now we dream, and wake, and smile!

George Parsons Lathrop.Written for the present collection.

Wherever I go, there's a trusty battalionThat follows me faithfully, steady, and true;Their force, when I falter, I safely may rally on,Knowing their stoutness will carry me through:Some fifteen hundred in order impartial,So ranged that they tell what they mean by their looks.Of all the armies the world can marshalThere are no better soldiers than well-tried books.Dumb in their ranks on the shelves imprisoned,They never retreat. Give the word, and they'll fire!A few with scarlet and gold are bedizened,But many muster in rough attire;And some, with service and scars grown wizened,Seem hardly the mates for their fellows in youth;Yet they, and the troops armed only with quiz andLight laughter, all battle alike for the truth.Here are those who gave motive to sock and to buskin;With critics, historians, poets galore;A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin,Which Ruskin would hate from his heart's very core;Molière ('99), an old calf-bound edition,"De Pierre Didot l'aîné, et de Firmin Didot."Which, meek and demure, with a sort of contrition,Is masking its gun-lights, with fun all aglow;And Smollett and Fielding, as veterans battered—Cloth stripped from their backs, and their sides out of joint,Their pictures of life all naked and tatteredBeing thus applied to themselves with a point;And six or eight books that I wrote myself,To look at which, even, I'm half afraid;They brought me more labor and pleasure than pelf,And are clamoring still because they're not paid.But these raw levies remain still faithful,Because they know that volumes oldStand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithfulRemind me they seldom at profit were sold.So I say, be they splendid or tatterdemalion,If only you know what they mean by their looks,You will never find a better battalionOf soldiers to serve you than well-tried books.

Dumb in their ranks on the shelves imprisoned,They never retreat. Give the word, and they'll fire!A few with scarlet and gold are bedizened,But many muster in rough attire;And some, with service and scars grown wizened,Seem hardly the mates for their fellows in youth;Yet they, and the troops armed only with quiz andLight laughter, all battle alike for the truth.

Here are those who gave motive to sock and to buskin;With critics, historians, poets galore;A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin,Which Ruskin would hate from his heart's very core;Molière ('99), an old calf-bound edition,"De Pierre Didot l'aîné, et de Firmin Didot."Which, meek and demure, with a sort of contrition,Is masking its gun-lights, with fun all aglow;

And Smollett and Fielding, as veterans battered—Cloth stripped from their backs, and their sides out of joint,Their pictures of life all naked and tatteredBeing thus applied to themselves with a point;And six or eight books that I wrote myself,To look at which, even, I'm half afraid;They brought me more labor and pleasure than pelf,And are clamoring still because they're not paid.

But these raw levies remain still faithful,Because they know that volumes oldStand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithfulRemind me they seldom at profit were sold.So I say, be they splendid or tatterdemalion,If only you know what they mean by their looks,You will never find a better battalionOf soldiers to serve you than well-tried books.

Walter Learned.Written for the present collection.

At Cato's-Head in Russell StreetThese leaves she sat a-stitching;I fancy she was trim and neat,Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.Before her, in the street below,All powder, ruffs, and laces,There strutted idle London beauxTo ogle pretty faces;While, filling many a Sedan chairWith hoop and monstrous feather,In patch and powder London's fairWent trooping past together.Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhapThey sauntered slowly past her,Or printer's boy, with gown and capFor Steele, went trotting faster.For beau nor wit had she a look,Nor lord nor lady minding;She bent her head above this book,Attentive to her binding.And one stray thread of golden hair,Caught on her nimble fingers,Was stitched within this volume, whereUntil to-day it lingers.Past and forgotten, beaux and fair;Wigs, powder, all out-dated;A queer antique, the Sedan chair;Pope, stiff and antiquated.Yet as I turn these odd old plays,This single stray lock finding,I'm back in those forgotten daysAnd watch her at her binding.

At Cato's-Head in Russell StreetThese leaves she sat a-stitching;I fancy she was trim and neat,Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.

Before her, in the street below,All powder, ruffs, and laces,There strutted idle London beauxTo ogle pretty faces;

While, filling many a Sedan chairWith hoop and monstrous feather,In patch and powder London's fairWent trooping past together.

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhapThey sauntered slowly past her,Or printer's boy, with gown and capFor Steele, went trotting faster.

For beau nor wit had she a look,Nor lord nor lady minding;She bent her head above this book,Attentive to her binding.

And one stray thread of golden hair,Caught on her nimble fingers,Was stitched within this volume, whereUntil to-day it lingers.

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair;Wigs, powder, all out-dated;A queer antique, the Sedan chair;Pope, stiff and antiquated.

Yet as I turn these odd old plays,This single stray lock finding,I'm back in those forgotten daysAnd watch her at her binding.

Robert Leighton.From 'Reuben, and Other Poems.' 1875

I would that we were only readers now,And wrote no more, or in rare heats of soulSweated out thoughts when the o'er-burden'd browWas powerless to control.Then would all future books be small and few,And, freed of dross, the soul's refinèd gold;So should we have a chance to read the new,Yet not forego the old.But as it is, Lord help us, in this floodOf daily papers, books, and magazines!We scramble blind as reptiles in the mud,And know not what it means.Is it the myriad spawn of vagrant tides,Whose growth would overwhelm both sea and shore,Yet often necessary loss, providesSufficient and no more?Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds,And from the stones, the thorns and fertile soil,Only enough to serve the world's great needsRewards the sower's toil?Is it all needed for the varied mind?Gives not the teeming press a book too much—Not one, but in its dense neglect shall findSome needful heart to touch?Ah, who can say that even this blade of grassNo mission has—superfluous as it looks?Then wherefore feel oppressed and cry, Alas,There are too many books!

I would that we were only readers now,And wrote no more, or in rare heats of soulSweated out thoughts when the o'er-burden'd browWas powerless to control.

Then would all future books be small and few,And, freed of dross, the soul's refinèd gold;So should we have a chance to read the new,Yet not forego the old.

But as it is, Lord help us, in this floodOf daily papers, books, and magazines!We scramble blind as reptiles in the mud,And know not what it means.

Is it the myriad spawn of vagrant tides,Whose growth would overwhelm both sea and shore,Yet often necessary loss, providesSufficient and no more?

Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds,And from the stones, the thorns and fertile soil,Only enough to serve the world's great needsRewards the sower's toil?

Is it all needed for the varied mind?Gives not the teeming press a book too much—Not one, but in its dense neglect shall findSome needful heart to touch?

Ah, who can say that even this blade of grassNo mission has—superfluous as it looks?Then wherefore feel oppressed and cry, Alas,There are too many books!

Frederick Locker.Written for the present collection.

Of yore, when books were few and fine,Will Shakspere cut these leaves of mine,But when he passed I went astrayTill bought by Pope, a gift for Gay.Then, later on, betwixt my pagesA nose was poked—the Bolt-Court Sage's.But though the Fame began with Rawleigh,And had not dwindled with Macaulay,Though still I tincture many tomesLike Lowell's pointed sense, and Holmes',For me the halcyon days have past—I'm here, and with a dunce at last.

But though the Fame began with Rawleigh,And had not dwindled with Macaulay,Though still I tincture many tomesLike Lowell's pointed sense, and Holmes',For me the halcyon days have past—I'm here, and with a dunce at last.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.Written in December, 1881.

Sadly as some old mediæval knightGazed at the arms he could no longer wield,The sword two-handed and the shining shieldSuspended in the hall, and full in sight,While secret longings for the lost delightOf tourney or adventure in the fieldCame over him, and tears but half concealedTrembled and fell upon his beard of white,So I behold these books upon their shelf,My ornaments and arms of other days;Not wholly useless, though no longer used,For they remind me of my other self,Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways,In which I walked, now clouded and confused.

Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton.From 'Earlier Poems.'

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