5-cr.ofc; for l!;t IBtbliap'Ijtlc ,.-'■ LIBRARY OF THE University of California. Class 4* Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/balladsofbooksOOmattrich BALLADS OF BOOKS CHOSEN BY BRANDER MATTHEWS Q TUB S £ ■1 bb a || s1§[k>5^-^ DJ L r tnl£7 itf^THBP 11 " 1 o *PW1 bv^H II ORW^H 3 oHSwH r [D ^ • P ®lf^DCCCJLKXXYl K NEW YORK GEORGE J. COOMBES 275 £ift6 3Ctomue 1887 LIBRARIAN'S I Copyright, 1886, By GEORGE J. COOMBES. CamfcritJ0e : Printed at tfce fttoetffoe ®xt&. To FREDERICK LOCKER POET AND LOVER OF BOOKS Come and take a choice of all my library Titus Andronicus, iv. i 218982 PREFATORY NOTE. HE poets have ever been lovers of books ; indeed, one might ask how should a man be a poet who did not admire a treasure as precious and as beautiful as a book may be. With evident enjoyment, Keats de- scribes A viol, bowstrings torn, cross-wise upon A glorious folio of Anacreon ; and it was a glorious folio of Beaumont and Fletcher which another English poet (whose most poetic work was done in prose) " dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden," and to pacify his con- science for the purchase of which he kept to his over- worn suit of clothes for four or five weeks longer than he ought. Charles Lamb was a true bibliophile, in the earlier and more exact sense of the term ; he loved his ragged volumes as he loved his fellow-men, and he was as intolerant of books that are not books VI PREFATORY NOTE. as he was of men who were not manly. He con- ferred the dukedom of his library on Coleridge, who was no respecter of books, though he could not but enrich them with his marginal notes. Southey and Lord Houghton and Mr. Locker are English poets with libraries of their own, more orderly and far richer than the fortuitous congregation of printed atoms, a mere medley of unrelated tomes, which often masquerades as The Library in the mansions of the noble and the wealthy. Shelley said that he thought Southey had a secret in every one of his books which he was afraid the stranger might discover : but this was probably no more, and no other, than the se- cret of comfort, consolation, refreshment, and happi- ness to be found in any library by him who shall bring with him the golden key that unlocks its silent door. Mr. Lowell has recently dwelt on the difference between literature and books : and, accepting this distinction, the editor desires to declare at once that as a whole this collection is devoted rather to books than to literature. The poems in the following pages celebrate the bric-a-brac of the one rather than the masterpieces of the other. The stanzas here gar- nered into one sheaf sing of books as books, of books valuable and valued for their perfection of type and page and printing, — for their beauty and for their rarity, — or for their association with some famous man or woman of the storied past. Two centuries and a half ago Drummond of Haw- PRE FA TOR Y NO TE. vii thornden prefixed to the 'Varieties' of his friend Persons a braggart distich : — This book a world is ; here, if errors be, The like, nay worse, in the great world we see. The present collection of varieties in verse has little or naught to do with the great world and its errors : it has to do chiefly, not to say wholly, with the world of the Bookmen — the little world of the Book-lover, the Bibliophile, the Bibliomaniac — a mad world, my masters, in which there are to be found not a few poets who cherish old wine and old wood, old friends and old books, and who believe that old books are the best of old friends. Books, books again, and books once more ! These are our theme, which some miscall Mere madness, setting little store By copies either short or tall, But you, O slaves of shelf and stall ! We rather write for you that hold Patched folios dear, and prize " the small Rare volume, black with burnished gold." as Mr. Austin Dobson sang on the threshold of Mr. Lang's delightfully discursive little book about the 1 Library.' The editor has much pleasure in thanking the poets who have allowed him to reprint their poems in these pages ; and he acknowledges a double debt of gratitude to the friends who have written poems expressly for this collection. Encouraged by their support, and remembering that he is not a contribu- tor to his own pages, the editor ventures to conclude Vlll PREFATORY NOTE. ' his harmless necessary catalogue of the things con- tained and not contained within these covers, by quoting Herrick's address to his Book : — Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear, The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe ; But by the muses swear, all here is good, If but well read, or ill read, understood. BRANDER MATTHEWS. New York, November, 1886. BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM. Deep in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor , A Child with book, upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more ! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore ! The Books I loved, I love them still ! One gift the Fairies gave me : (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door ; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks and o'er And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN'S store, — The Books I loved, I love them still ! Take all, but leave my Books to me ! These heavy creels of old we love We fill not now, nor wander free, PROEM. Nor wear the heart that once we wore ; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muse's hill; Though something's gone from stream and shore, The Books I love, I love them still! ENVOY \ Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We how submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved — to love them still. A. Lang. Contents PAGE Prefatory Note v Proem. * Ballade of the Bookworm (A. Lang) . . ix Edward D. Anderson. The Baby in the Li- brary 17 Francis Bennoch. My Books 19 Laman Blanchard. The Art of Book- Keeping . 20 Anne C. L. Botta. hi the Library 26 H. C. Bunner. * My Shakspere 28 Robert Burns. The Bookworms 31 Catullus. * To his Book (Translated by A. Lang) 32 Beverly Chew. Old Books are best 33 Thomas S. Collier. * The Forgotten Books . . 34 Helen Gray Cone. An Invocation in a Library . 36 Samuel Daniel. Concerning the Honor of Books . 38 Isaac D'Israeli. Lines 39 * The poems thus marked were written or translated for the present col- lection. Xil CONTENTS. Austin Dobson. My Books 40 To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century ... 42 The Book-plate's Petition 44 Henry Drury. Over the Threshold of my Li- brary 46 Maurice F. Egan. The Chrysalis of a Bookworm 47 Evenus. Epigram (Translated by A. Lang) ... 48 John Ferriar. The Bibliomania 49 F. Fertiault. Triolet to her Husband (Translated by A. Lang) 57 William Freeland. A Nook and a Book ... 58 Edmund Gosse. * The Sultan of my Books ... 60 Thomas Gordon Hake. Our Book-Shelves . . 64 Robert Herrick. To his Book 66 To his Book 67 Horace. * To his Books (Translated by Austin Dobson) 68 Leigh Hunt. Sonnet 70 Willis Fletcher Johnson. My Books .... 71 Ben Jonson. To my Bookseller 73 To Sir Henry Goody ere 74 Charles Lamb. In the Album of Lucy Barton . . 75 A.Lang. Ballade of the Bo ok- Hunter 77 Ballade of True Wisdom 79 Ballade of the Bookman's Paradise .... 81 The Rowfant Books 83 The Rowfant Library 85 Ghosts in the Library 87 CONTENTS. xiii George Parsons Lathrop. * The Book Battalion 91 Walter Learned. * On the Fly-Leaf of a Book of OldPlays 93 Robert Leighton. Too Many Books 95 Frederick Locker. * From the Fly-Leaf of the Rowfant Montaigne 97 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. My Books . 98 Lord Lytton. The Souls of Books 99 Cosmo Monkhouse. * De Libris 105 Arthur J. Munby. * Ex Libris 107 * On an Inscription 108 Caroline Norton. To my Books no F. M. P. l Desultory Reading' in Thomas Parnell. The Bookworm 112 Samuel Minturn Peck. Among my Books . .116 Walter Herries Pollock. * A Ruined Library .117 Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). My Books 119 William Roscoe. To my Books on Parting with Them 120 Lord Rosslyn. Among my Books 121 John Godfrey Saxe. The Library 123 Clinton Scollard. Ln the Library 124 Frank Dempster Sherman. The Book-Hunter . 126 Robert Southey. The Library 128 Robert Louis Stevenson. Picture-Books in Win- ter 130 Richard Henry Stoddard. Companions . . .131 xiv CONTENTS. Richard Thomson. The Book of Life 133 Charles Tennyson Turner. On Certain Books . 135 Henry Vaughan. To his Books 136 Samuel Waddington. * Literature and Nature . 138 John Greenleaf Whittier. The Library . . .139 Tom as Yriarte. The Country Squire 141 Anonymous. Old Books 144 APPENDIX. George Crabbe. The Library 149 A Final Word. * The Collector to his Library (Austin Dobson) 173 -Ballad of 'Boofts BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE BABY IN THE LIBRARY. Edward D. Anderson. From ' Wideawake ' for May, fS8j. WITHIN these solemn, book-lined walls, Did mortal ever see A critic so unprejudiced, So full of mirthful glee ? Just watch her at that lower shelf : See, there she 's thumped her nose Against the place where Webster stands In dignified repose. Such heavy books she scorns ; and she Considers Vapereau, And Beeton, too, though full of life, Quite stupid, dull, and slow. She wants to take a higher flight, Aspiring little elf ! And on her mother's arm at length She gains a higher shelf. 1 8 BALLADS OF BOOKS. But, oh ! what liberties she takes With those grave, learned men ; Historians, and scientists, And even " Rare old Ben ! " At times she takes a spiteful turn, And pommels, with her fists, De Quincey, Jeffrey, and Carlyle, And other essayists. And, when her wrath is fully roused, And she 's disposed for strife, It almost looks as if she 'd like To take Macaulay's ' Life/ Again, in sympathetic mood, She gayly smiles at Gay, And punches Punch, and frowns at Sterne In quite a dreadful way. In vain the Sermons shake their heads : She does not care for these ; But catches, with intense delight, At all the Tales she sees. Where authors chance to meet her views, Just praise they never lack j To comfort and encourage them, She pats them on the back. MY BOOKS. 19 MY BOOKS. _ _ From the * Storm and Other Poems? Francis Bennoch. I LOVE my books as drinkers love their wine ; The more I drink, the more they seem divine ; With joy elate my soul in love runs o'er, And each fresh draught is sweeter than before. Books bring me friends where'er on earth I be, — Solace of solitude, — bonds of society ! I love my books ! they are companions dear, Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere ; Here talk I with the wise in ages gone, And with the nobly gifted of our own. If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind, Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find. BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. Lam an Blanchard. From his * Poetical Works.' 187b. HOW hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that 's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers — folks that fish With literary hooks j Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through, — They thus complete their set at home, By making one at you. Behold the bookshelf of a dunce Who borrows — never lends : Yon work, in twenty volumes, once Belonged to twenty friends. New tales and novels you may shut From view — 't is all in vain j They 're gone — and though the leaves are " cut " They never " come again." For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt ; But when they take a book that 's bound, 'T is surely extra-gilt. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 21 A circulating library Is mine — my birds are flown ; There 's one odd volume left to be Like all the rest, a-lone. I, of my Spenser quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken ; Of Lamb I 've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my Bacon. My Hall and Hill were levelled flat, But Moore was still the cry \ And then, although I threw them Sprat, They swallowed up my Pye. O'er everything, however slight, They seized some airy trammel ; They snatched my Hogg and Fox one night, And pocketed my Campbell. And then I saw my Crabbe at last, Like Hamlet's, backward go ; And, as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my Rowe. I wondered into what balloon My books their course had bent ; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my Marvell went. BALLADS OF BOOKS. My Mallet served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker ; And once, while I was out of town, My Johnson proved a Walker. While studying o'er the fire one day My Hobbes amidst the smoke, They bore my Colman clean away, And carried off my Coke. They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah's patent 's worth ; And now my losses I deplore Without a Home on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal ; For though I caught them stealing Swift, As swiftly went my Steele. Hope is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated ; But, what is strange, my Pope himself Is excommunicated. My little Suckling in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage j And what 't was Crusoe's fate to save 'T was mine to lose — a Savage. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 23 Even Glover's works I cannot put My frozen hands upon ; Though ever since I lost my Foote My Bunyan has been gone. My Hoyle with Cotton went ; oppressed, My Taylor too must sail \ To save my Goldsmith from arrest, In vain I offered Bayle. I Prior sought, but could not see The Hood so late in front \ And when I turned to hunt for Lee, Oh ! where was my Leigh Hunt. I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, Yet could not Tickell touch ; And then, alas ! I missed my Mickle, And surely mickle 's much. 'T is quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my Reid, Nor even use my Hughes. To West, to South, I turn my head, Exposed alike to odd jeers ; For since my Roger Ascham's fled, I ask 'em for my Rogers. 24 BALLADS OF BOOKS. They took my Home — and Home Tooke, too, And thus my treasures flit ; I feel, when I would Hazlitt view, The flames that it has lit. My word's worth little, Wordsworth gone, If I survive its doom ; How many a bard I doated on Was swept off — with my Broome. My classics would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped ; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, " My Livy has eloped ! " My life is wasting fast away — I suffer from these shocks ; And though I 've fixed a lock on Gray, There 's gray upon my locks. I 'm far from young — am growing pale — I see my Butter fly ; And when they ask about my ail, 'T is Burton ! I reply. They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide ; For oh ! they Ve cured me of my Burns, And eased my Akenside. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 25 But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn ; For as they never found me Gay, They have not left me Sterne. 26 BALLADS OF BOOKS. IN THE LIBRARY. Anne C. L. Botta. From her collected '* Poems.'' 1882. SPEAK low — tread softly through these halls ; Here genius lives enshrined, — Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind. A mighty spirit-host, they come From every age and clime ; Above the buried wrecks of years They breast the tide of 4;ime. And in their presence-chamber here They hold their regal state, And round them throng a noble train, The gifted and the great. O child of earth, when round thy path The storms of life arise, And when thy brothers pass thee by With stern, unloving eyes, — Here shall the Poets chant for thee Their sweetest, loftiest lays 5 IN THE LIBRARY. 27 And Prophets wait to guide thy steps In wisdom's pleasant ways. Come, with these God-anointed kings Be thou companion here, And in the mighty realm of mind Thou shalt go forth a peer. 28 BALLADS OF BOOKS. MY SHAKSPERE. H. C. Bunnkr. Written expressly for this collection. WITH bevelled binding, with uncut edge, With broad white margin and gilded top, Fit for my library's choicest ledge, Fresh from the bindery, smelling of shop, In tinted cloth, with a strange design — Buskin and scroll-work and mask and crown, And an arabesque legend tumbling down — " The Works of Shakspere " were never so fine. Fresh from the shop ! I turn the page — Its " ample margin " is wide and fair — Its type is chosen with daintiest care ; There 's a " New French Elzevir " strutting there That would shame its prototypic age. Fresh from the shop ! O Shakspere mine, I Ve half a notion you 're much too fine ! There 's an ancient volume that I recall, In foxy leather much chafed and worn ; Its back is broken by many a fall, The stitches are loose and the leaves are torn ; And gone is the bastard-title, next To the title-page scribbled with owners' names, That in straggling old-style type proclaims MY SHAKSPERE. 29 That the work is from the corrected text Left by the late Geo. Steevens, Esquire. The broad sky burns like a great blue fire, And the Lake shines blue as shimmering steel, And* it cuts the horizon like a blade — But behind the poplar 's a strip of shade — The great tall Lombardy on the lawn. And lying there in the grass, I feel The wind that blows from the Canada shore, And in cool, sweet puffs comes stealing o'er, Fresh as any October dawn. I lie on my breast in the grass, my feet Lifted boy-fashion, and swinging free, The old brown Shakspere in front of me. And big are my eyes, and my heart's a-beat ; And my whole soul 's lost — in what ? — who knows ? Perdita's charms or Perdita's woes — Perdita fairy-like, fair and sweet. • Is any one jealous, I wonder, now, Of my love for Perdita ? For I vow I loved her well. And who can say That life would be quite the same life to-day — That Love would mean so much, if she * Had not taught me its A B C ? The Grandmother, thin and bent and old, But her hair still dark and her eyes still bright, Totters around among her flowers — Old-fashioned flowers of pink and white ; 3° BALLADS OF BOOKS. And turns with a trowel the dark rich mould That feeds the blooms of her heart's delight. Ah me ! for her and for me the hours Go by, and for her the smell of earth — And for me the breeze and a far love's birth, And the sun and the sky and all the things That a boy's heart hopes and a poet sings. Fresh from the shop ! O Shakspere mine, It was n't the binding made you divine ! I knew you first in a foxy brown, In the old, old home, where I laid me down, In the idle summer afternoons, With you alone in the odorous grass, And set your thoughts to the wind's low tunes, And saw your children rise up and pass — And dreamed and dreamed of the things to be, Known only, I think, to you and me. I Ve hardly a heart for you dressed so fine — Fresh from the shop, O Shakspere mine ! THE BOOKWORMS. 31 THE BOOKWORMS. Burns saw a splendidly bound but sadly neglected copy of Shakspere in the Robert Burns. libr ?Z y °S * noMenian in Edinburgh, and he wrote these lines on the ample margin of one of its pages, where they were found long after the poet's death. THROUGH and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings ; But oh, respect his lordship's taste, And spare the golden bindings. 32 BALLADS OF BOOKS. CATULLUS TO HIS BOOK. QVOI DONO LEPIDVM NOVVM LIBELLVM. „ .. r. Translated by A. Lang expressly Caius Valerius Catullus. ' £ * r for this collection. MY little book, that's neat and new, Fresh polished with dry pumice stone, To whom, Cornelius, but to you, Shall this be sent, for you alone — (Who used to praise my lines, my own) — Have dared, in weighty volumes three, (What labors, Jove, what learning thine !) To tell the Tale of Italy, And all the legend of our line. So take, whate'er its worth may be, My Book, — but Lady and Queen of Song, This one kind gift I crave of thee, That it may live for ages long ! OLD BOOKS ARE BEST. 33 OLD BOOKS ARE BEST. TO J. H. P. Beverly Chew. From the ' Critic ' of March ij, 1886. OLD Books are best ! With what delight Does " Faithorne fecit " greet our sight On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage " Sweet Nell " set " Rowley's " heart alight ! And you, O Friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirate's rage, Old Books are best. What though the prints be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight ? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right : Old Books are best. 34 BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE FORGOTTEN BOOKS. Thomas S. Collier. # Written expressly for this collection. HID by the garret's dust, and lost Amid the cobwebs wreathed above, They lie, these volumes that have cost Such weeks of hope and waste of love. The Theologian's garnered lore Of Scripture text, and words divine ; And verse, that to some fair one bore Thoughts that like fadeless stars would shine ; The grand wrought epics, that were born From mighty throes of heart and brain, — Here rest, their covers all unworn, And all their pages free from stain. Here lie the chronicles that told Of man, and his heroic deeds — Alas ! the words once " writ in gold " Are tarnished so that no one reads. And tracts that smote each other hard, While loud the friendly plaudits rang, THE FORGOTTEN BOOKS. 35 All animosities discard, Where old, moth-eaten garments hang. The heroes that were made to strut In tinsel on " life's mimic stage " Found, all too soon, the deepening rut Which kept them silent in the page ; And heroines, whose loveless plight Should wake the sympathetic tear, In volumes sombre as the night Sleep on through each succeeding year. Here Phyllis languishes forlorn, And Strephon waits beside his flocks, And early huntsmen wind the horn, Within the boundaries of a box. Here, by the irony of fate, Beside the " peasant's humble board," The monarch " flaunts his robes of state," And spendthrifts find the miser's hoard. Days come and go, and still we write, And hope for some far happier lot Than that our work should meet this blight — And yet — some books must be forgot. 36 BALLADS OF BOOKS. AN INVOCATION IN A LIBRARY. Helen Gray Cone. From ' Oberon and Puck? 1885. O BROTHERHOOD, with bay-crowned brows undaunted, Who passed serene along our crowded ways, Speak with us still ! For we, like Saul, are haunted : Harp sullen spirits from these later days ! Whate'er high hope ye had for man your brother, Breathe it, nor leave him, like a prisoned slave, To stare through bars upon a sight no other Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave. In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting, From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold, Till the New Age shall feel her cold heart beating Restfully on the warm heart of the Old : Till we shall hear your voices, mild and winning Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells At fiercest noon, above a city's dinning, The chiming music of cathedral bells : AN INVOCATION IN A LIBRARY, 37 Music that lifts the thought from trodden places, And coarse confusions that around us lie, Up to the calm of high, cloud-silvered spaces, Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky. 38 BALLADS OF BOOKS. CONCERNING THE HONOR OF BOOKS. This sonnet, prefixed to the second edi- tion of Florio's Montaigne, ibrj, is Samuel Daniel. generally attributed to the transla- tor, but the best critics now incline to the belief that it is by his friend, Daniel. SINCE honor from the honorer proceeds, How well do they deserve, that memorize And leave in books for all posterity The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds ; When all their glory else, like water-weeds Without their element, presently dies, And all their greatness quite forgotten lies, And when and how they flourished no man heeds j How poor remembrances are statues, tombs, And other monuments that men erect To princes, which remain in closed rooms, Where but a few behold them, in respect Of books, that to the universal eye Show how they lived ; the other where they lie ! LINES, 39 LINES. f„..,- TvTr.T,»„,» Imitated from Rantzau^ the founder Isaac D Israeli. ofthe ^ rary at Copenhage l GOLDEN volumes ! richest treasures ! Objects of delicious pleasures ! You my eyes rejoicing please, You my hands in rapture seize ! Brilliant wits, and musing sages, Lights who beamed through many ages, Left to your conscious leaves their story, And dared to trust you with their glory ; And now their hope of fame achieved ! Dear volumes 1 you have not deceived ! 40 BALLADS OF BOOKS. MY BOOKS. Austin Dobson. From ' At the Sign of the Lyre? 1883. THEY dwell in the odor of camphor, They stand in a Sheraton shrine, They are " warranted early editions," These worshipful tomes of mine ; — In their creamy " Oxford vellum," In their redolent " crushed Levant," With their delicate watered linings, They are jewels of price, I grant ; — Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed, They have Bedford's daintiest dress, They are graceful, attenuate, polished, But they gather the dust, no less ; — For the row that I prize is yonder, Away on the unglazed shelves, The bulged and the bruised octavos, The dear and the dumpy twelves, — Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered, And Howell the worse for wear, And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace, And the little old cropped Moliere, — MY BOOKS. 41 And the Burton I bought for a florin, And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd, — For the others I never have opened, But those are the ones I read. 42 BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CEN- TURY. Austin Dobson. From ■ At the Sign of the LyreS 1883. MISSAL of the Gothic age, Missal with the blazoned page, Whence, O Missal, hither come, From what dim scriptorium ? Whose the name that wrought thee thus, Ambrose or Theophilus, Bending, through the waning light, O'er thy vellum scraped and white ; Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines Sprays and leaves and quaint designs : Setting round thy border scrolled Buds of purple and of gold ? Ah ! — a wondering brotherhood, Doubtless, round that artist stood, Strewing o'er his careful ways Little choruses of praise ; Glad when his deft hand would paint Strife of Sathanas and Saint, TO A MISSAL. 43 Or in secret coign entwist Jest of cloister humorist. Well the worker earned his wage, Bending o'er the blazoned page ! Tired the hand and tired the wit Ere the final Explicit ! Not as ours the books of old — Things that steam can stamp and fold ; Not as ours the books of yore — Rows of type, and nothing more. Then a book was still a Book, Where a wistful man might look, Finding something through the whole, Beating — like a human soul. In that growth of day by day, When to labor was to pray, Surely something vital passed To the patient page at last ; Something that one still perceives Vaguely present in the leaves ; Something from the worker lent ; Something mute — but eloquent ! 44 BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION. BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE. . . -r> Published originally in ' Notes and Austin Dobson. Queries; Januarys, i88r. WHILE cynic Charles still trimm'd the vane 'Twixt Querouaille and Castlemaine, In days that shocked John Evelyn, My First Possessor fix'd me in. In days of Dutchmen and of frost, The narrow sea with James I crossed, Returning when once more began The Age of Saturn and of Anne. I am a part of all the past ; I knew the Georges, first and last ; I have been oft where else was none Save the great wig of Addison ; And seen on shelves beneath me grope The little eager form of Pope. I lost the Third that own'd me when French Noailles fled at Dettingen ; The year James Wolfe surpris'd Quebec, The Fourth in hunting broke his neck ; The day that William Hogarth dy'd, The Fifth one found me in Cheapside. THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION. 45 This was a Scholar, one of those • Whose Greek is sounder than their hose ; He lov'd old books, and nappy ale, So liv'd at Streatham, next to Thrale. 'T was there this stain of grease I boast Was made by Dr. Johnson's toast. (He did it, as I think, for spite ; My Master called him Jacobite I) And now that I so long to-day Have rested post discrimina. Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where I watched the Vicar's whit'ning hair Must I these travelPd bones inter In some Collector's sepulchre ! Must I be torn from hence and thrown With frontispiece and colopho?i / With vagrant is's, and /'s and <9's, The spoil of plunder'd Folios ! With scraps and snippets that to Me Are naught but kitchen company / Nay, rather, Friend, this favor grant me ; Tear me at once ; but don't transplant me. Cheltenham, Sept. 31 , 17Q2. 46 BALLADS OF BOOKS. OVER THE THRESHOLD OF MY LIBRARY. Quoted from the supplement of Dibdin's Henry Drury. * Bibliomania? where the original Latin lines may be found. FROM mouldering Abbey's dark Scriptorium brought, See vellum tomes by Monkish labor wrought ; Nor yet the comma born, Papyri see, And uncial letters' wizard grammary 5 View my fif teeners in their ragged line ; What ink ! What linen ! Only known long syne — Entering where Aldus might have fixed his throne, Or Harry Stephens coveted his own. THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOKWORM. 47 THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOKWORM. Mauricb F. Eg an. From l Songs and Sonnets.' 1 1885. I READ, O friend, no pages of old lore, Which I loved well, and yet the flying days, That softly passed as wind through green spring ways And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore, Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more, Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays, Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze, Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore. I read a book to which old books are new, And new books old. A living book is mine — In age, three years : in it I read no lies — In it to myriad truths I find the clew — A tender, little child : but I divine Thoughts high as Dante's in its clear blue eyes. 48 BALLADS OF BOOKS. EPIGRAM. Tr„«xr„o au~ ~~,w,~,„«:.,~\ Rendered into English by A. Lang Evenus (the grammarian). fc ^ , Library f j88 / PEST of the Muses, devourer of pages, in cran- nies that lurkest, Fruits of the Muses to taint, labor of learning to spoil ; Wherefore, O black-fleshed worm ! wert thou born for the evil thou workest ? Wherefore thine own foul form shap'st thou with envious toil ? THE BIBLIOMANIA. 49 THE BIBLIOMANIA. Hie, inquis, veto quisquam fuit oletum. Pinge duos angues. Pers. Sat. i. 1. 108. T „ " An Epistle to Richard Heber, Esq." John Ferriar. Manchester, April, 1809. WHAT wild desires, what restless torments seize The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, If niggard Fortune cramp his gen'rous mind And Prudence quench the Spark by heaven assign'd ! With wistful glance his aching eyes behold The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin, Displays, yet guards the tempting charms within : So great Facardin view'd, as sages * tell, Fair Crystalline immur'd in lucid cell. Not thus the few, by happier fortune grae'd, And blest, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste, Who gather nobly, with judicious hand, The Muse's treasures from each letter'd strand. For you the Monk illum'd his pictur'd page, For you the press defies the Spoils of age ; * Sages, Count Hamilton, in the ' Quatre Facardins,' and Mr. M. Lewis, in his ■ Tales of Romance.' 50 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Faustus for you infernal tortures bore, For you Erasmus * starv'd on Adria's shore. The Folio-Aldus loads your happy Shelves, And dapper Elzevirs, like fairy elves, Shew their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves : In slender type the Giolitos shine, And bold Bodoni stamps his Roman line. For you the Louvre opes its regal doors, And either Didot lends his brilliant stores : With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright, Ibarra's Quixote charms your ravish'd sight : Laborde in splendid tablets shall explain Thy beauties, glorious, tho' unhappy Spain ! O, hallowed name, the theme of future years, Embalm'd in Patriot-blood, and England's tears, Be thine fresh honors from the tuneful tongue, By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung ! But devious oft' from ev'ry classic Muse, The keen Collector meaner paths will choose : And first the Margin's breadth his soul employs, Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys. In vain might Homer roll the tide of song, Or Horace smile, or Tully charm the throng ; If crost by Pallas' ire, the trenchant blade Or too oblique, or near, the edge invade, The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye, " No Margin ! " turns in haste, and scorns to buy. * * See the ' Opulentia Sordida,' in his ' Colloquies,' where he com- plains feelingly of the spare Venetian diet. THE BIBLIOMANIA. 51 He turns where Pybus rears his Atlas-head, Or Madoc's mass conceals its veins of lead. The glossy lines in polish'd order stand, While the vast margin spreads on either hand, Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep, Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep.* Or English books, neglected and forgot, Excite his wish in many a dusty lot : Whatever trash Midwinter gave to day, Or Harper's rhiming sons, in paper gray, At ev'ry auction, bent on fresh supplies, He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes : Where'er the slim Italics mark the page, Curious and rare his ardent mind engage. Unlike the Swans, in Tuscan Song display'd, He hovers eager o'er Oblivion's Shade, To snatch obscurest names from endless night, And give Cokain or Fletcher t back to light. In red morocco drest he loves to boast The bloody murder, or the yelling ghost ; Or dismal ballads, sung to crouds of old, Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold. * It may be said that Quintilian recommends margins ; but it is with a view to their being occasionally occupied : Debet vacare etiam locus, in quo notentur quae scribentibus solent extra ordinem, id est ex aliis quam qui sunt in manibus loci, occurrere. Irrumpunt enim op- timi nonnunquam Sensus, quos neque inserere oportet, neque differre tutum est. l Instit.' lib. x. c. 3. He was therefore no Margin-man, in the modern sense. t Fletcher. A translator of Martial. A very bad Poet, but exceed- ingly scarce. 52 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Yet to th' unhonor'd dead be Satire just ; Some flow'rs* "smell sweet and blossom in their dust." 'T is thus ev'n Shirley boasts a golden line, And Lovelace strikes, by fits, a note divine. Th' unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play, And deepen'd gloom succeeds, in place of day. I But human bliss still meets some envious storm ; He droops to view his Paynters' mangled form : Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repines O'er the frail relics of her Attic Shrines ! for that power, for which Magicians vye. To look through earth, and secret hoards descry ! 1 'd spurn such gems as Marinel t beheld, And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held, Might I divine in what mysterious gloom The rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb : Beneath what mould'ring tower, or waste champain, Is hid Menander, sweetest of the train : Where rests Antimachus' forgotten lyre, Where gentle Sappho's still seductive fire; Or he,J whom chief the laughing Muses own, * Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Shirley. Perhaps Shirley had in view this passage of Persius, — Nunc non 6 tumulo, fortunataque favilla Nascentur Violae ? ' Sat.' i. 1. 37. t ' Faerie Queene.' X Aristophanes. THE BIBLIOMANIA. S3 Yet skiird with softest accents to bemoan Sweet Philomel * in strains so like her own. The menial train has prov'd the Scourge of wit, Ev'n Omar burnt less Science than the spit. Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage, But ev'ry feast demands some fated page. Ye Towers of Julius, f ye alone remain Of all the piles that saw our nation's stain, When Harry's sway opprest the groaning realm, And Lust and Rapine seiz'd the wav'ring helm. Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes, Their saintly statues and their storied panes ; Then from the chest, with ancient art embost, The Penman's pious scrolls were rudely tost ; ' Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread, The brawny Churls' devouring Oven fed : And thence Collectors date the heav'nly ire That wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire. % Taste, tho' misled, may yet some purpose gain, But Fashion guides a book-compelling train. § Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, The travell'd beau display'd his red-heel'd shoe, Till Orford rose, and told of rhiming Peers, Repeating noble words to polish'd ears ; || * See his exquisite hymn to the Nightingale in his "OpviOt?. t Gray. % The fire of London. § Cloud-compelling Jove. — Pope's ' Iliad.' II . . . gaudent praenomine molles Auriculae. Juvenal. 54 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Taught the gay croud to prize a flutt'ring name, In trifling toiPd, nor " blush'd to find it fame." The letter'd fop, now takes a larger scope, With classic furniture, design 'd by Hope, (Hope whom Upholst'rers eye with mute despair, The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair ;) Now warm'd by Orford, and by Granger school'd, In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tooPd, He pastes, from injur'd volumes snipt away, His English Heads, in chronicled array. Torn from their destin'd page (unworthy meed Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) Not Faithorne's stroke, nor Field's own types can save * The gallant Veres, and one-eyed Ogle brave. Indignant readers seek the image fled, And curse the busy fool, who wants a head. Proudly he shews, with many a smile elate, The scrambling subjects of the private plate ; While Time their actions and their names bereaves, They grin for ever in the guarded leaves. Like Poets, born, in vain Collectors strive To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive. Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will, The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still : * The gallant Veres and one-eyed Ogle. Three fine heads, for the sake of which, the beautiful and interesting ' Commentaries ' of Sir Francis Veres have been mutilated by the Collectors of English por- traits. THE BIBLIOMANIA. 55 Ev'n I, debarr'd of ease, and studious hours, Confess, mid' anxious toil, its lurking pow'rs. How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold ! The Eye skims restless, like the roving bee, O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee, While sweet as Springs, new-bubbling from the stone, Glides through the breast some pleasing theme un- known. Now dipt in Rossi's * terse and classic style, His harmless tales awake a transient smile. Now Bouchet's motley stores my thoughts arrest, With wond'rous reading, and with learned jest. Bouchet f whose tomes a grateful line demand, The valued gift of Stanley's lib'ral hand. Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, And mix regrets with gentle Du Bellay ; % Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page, Where hardy Pasquin § braves the Pontiff's rage. But D n's strains should tell the sad reverse, When Business calls, invet'rate foe to verse ! Tell how " the Demon claps his iron hands," " Waves his lank locks, and scours along the lands." * Generally known by the name of James Nicius Erythraeus. The allusion is to his ' Pinacotheca.' t *' Les Series de Gillaume Bouchet,' a book of uncommon rarity. I possess a handsome copy by the kindness of Colonel Stanley. \ ' Les Regrets,' by Joachim du Bellay, contain a most amusing and instructive account of Rome in the sixteenth century. § ( Pasquillorum Tomi duo.' 56 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go, To scenes of danger, and to sights of woe. Ev'n when to Margate ev'ry Cockney roves, And brainsick-poets long for shelt'ring groves, Whose lofty shades exclude the noontide glow, While Zephyrs breathe, and waters trill below,* Me rigid Fate averts, by tasks like these, From heav'nly musings, and from letter'd ease. Such wholesome checks the better Genius sends, From dire rehearsals to protect our friends : Else when the social rites our joys renew, The stuff'd Portfolio would alarm your view, Whence volleying rhimes your patience would o'er- come, And, spite of kindness, drive you early home. So when the traveller's hasty footsteps glide Near smoking lava on Vesuvio's side, Hoarse-mutt'ring thunders from the depths proceed, And spouting fires incite his eager speed. Appall'd he flies, while rattling show'rs invade, Invoking ev'ry Saint for instant aid : Breathless, amaz'd, he seeks the distant shore, And vows to tempt the dang'rous gulph no more. * Errare per lucos, aemaenae, Quos et aquas subeunt et auras. HORAT. TRIOLET TO HER HUSBAND. 57 TRIOLET TO HER HUSBAND. „ -, .. . _ Rendered into English by A. Lang in F. Fertiault. tlie < Library? 1881. BOOKS rule thy mind, so let it be ! Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. What more can I require of thee ? Books rule thy mind, so let it be ! Contented when thy bliss I see, I wish a world of books thine own. Books rule thy mind, so let it be ! Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. 5^ BALLADS OF BOOKS. A NOOK AND A BOOK. William Freeland. From \ A **** Son Z and other Po ' evis. Joo2. GIVE me a nook and a book, And let the proud world spin round ; Let it scramble by hook or by crook For wealth or a name with a sound. You are welcome to amble your ways, Aspirers to place or to glory ; May big bells jangle your praise, And golden pens blazon your story ! For me, let me dwell in my nook, Here by the curve of this brook, That croons to the tune of my book, Whose melody wafts me forever On the waves of an unseen river. Give me a book and a nook Far away from the glitter and strife ; Give me a staff and a crook, The calm and the sweetness of life ; Let me pause — let me brood as I list, On the marvels of heaven's own spinning — Sunlight and moonlight and mist, Glorious without slaying or sinning. A NOOK AND A BOOK. 59 Vain world, let me reign in my nook, King of this kingdom, my book, A region by fashion forsook ; Pass on, ye lean gamblers for glory, Nor mar the sweet tune of my story ! \ 6o BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE SULTAN OF MY BOOKS. There is many a true word spoken in doggerel. — Czech Folk-Song. Edmund Gosse. Written for the present collection. COME hither, my Wither, My Suckling, my Dryden ! My Hudibras, hither ! My Heinsius from Leyden ! Dear Play-books in quarto, Fat tomes in brown leather, Stray never too far to Come back here together ! Books writ on occult and Heretical letters, I, I am the Sultan Of you and your betters. I need you all round me ; When wits have grown muddy, My best hours have found me With you in my study. I Ve varied departments To give my books shelter ; Shelves, open apartments For tomes helter-skelter ; THE SULTAN OF MY BOOKS, 61 There are artisans' flats, fit For common editions, — I find them, as that 's fit, Good wholesome positions. But books that I cherish Live under glass cases ; In the waste lest they perish I build them oases ; Where gas cannot find them, Where worms cannot grapple, Those panes hold behind them, My eye and its apple. And here you see flirting Fine folks of distinction : Unique books just skirting The verge of extinction ; Old texts with one error And long notes upon it ; The * Magistrates' Mirror ' (With Nottingham's sonnet) ; Tooled Russias to gaze on, Moroccos to fondle, My Denham, in blazon, My vellum-backed Vondel, My Marvell, — a copy Was never seen taller, — My Jones's * Love's Poppy,' My dear little Waller ; 62 BALLADS OF BOOKS. My Sandys, a real jewel ! My exquisite, * Adamo ! ' My Dean Donne's ' Death's Duel ! ' My Behn (naughty madam O !) ; Ephelia's ! Orinda's ! Ma'am Pix and Ma'am Barker ! — The rhymsters you find, as The morals grow darker ! I never upbraid these Old periwigged sinners, Their songs and light ladies, Their dances and dinners ; My book-shelf 's a haven From storms puritanic, — We sure may be gay when Of death we 've no panic ! My parlor is little, And poor are its treasures ; All pleasures are brittle, And so are my pleasures ; But though I shall never Be Beckford or Locker, While Fate does not sever The door from the knocker, No book shall tap vainly At latch or at lattice (If costumed urbanely, And worth our care, that is) ; THE SULTAN OF MY BOOKS. 6$ My poets from slumber Shall rise in morocco, To shield the new comer From storm or sirocco. I might prate thus for pages, The theme is so pleasant \ But the gloom of the ages Lies on me at present ; All business and fear to The cold world I banish. Hush ! like the Ameer, to My harem I vanish ! 64 BALLADS OF BOOKS, OUR BOOK-SHELVES. Thomas Gordon Hakb. From the ' State ■ of April 17, 18S WHAT solace would those books afford, In gold and vellum cover, Could men but say them word for word Who never turn them over ! Books that must know themselves by heart As by endowment vital, Could they their truths to us impart Not stopping with the title ! Line after line their wisdom flows, Page after page repeating ; Yet never on our ears bestows A 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 jokes That it is ever spelling ? OUR BOOK-SHELVES. 65 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 ? 66 BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO HIS BOOK. Robert Herrick. Prefixed to l Hesperides. y 1648. WHILE thou didst keep thy candor undefiled, Dearly I loved thee, as my first-born child ; But when I sent thee wantonly to roam From 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 '11 smile, if bad I '11 sigh for thee. TO HIS BOOK. 67 TO HIS BOOK. Robert Herrick. MAKE haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee ; Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery j Or see thy injured leaves serve well To make loose gowns for mackerel ; Or see the grocers, in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice. 68 BALLADS OF BOOKS TO HIS BOOKS. Imitated by A ustin Dobson from tlie ''Epistles] i. 20, for the present col- Q. Horatius Flaccus. lection FOR mart and street you seem to pine With 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 quit Your modest haunt and audience fit, For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you must be 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 ; 1 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 heartlessness In leaving me, and this your home), You should find favor, too, at Rome. That is, they '11 like you while you 're young. When you are old, you '11 pass among The Great Unwashed, — then thumbed and sped, TO HIS BOOKS. 69 Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you '11 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 age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest " slum " to teach Mere boys the rudiments of speech ! But go. When on warm days you see A 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 worth What you must take in point of birth) ; Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the Town ; Paint me as early gray, and one Little 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 us Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus. 70 BALLADS OF BOOKS. SONNET. Found by Mr. Alexander Ireland in Leigh Hunt. the London ' Examiner* of Decem- ber 24, 1815, and not anywhere in- cluded, in 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 unoppressed With the world's weight, making sad thoughts in- tenser ; 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. MY BOOKS. 7 1 MY BOOKS. 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 finding By their size or by their binding. There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art ; Costing more, 't is well believed, Than the author e'er received. But its contents ? Idle tales, Flappings of a shallop's sails ! In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning. Here 's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, 72 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. Take it down, and lo ! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage : Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns 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 in Heed not what each man 's arrayed in ! TO MY BOOKSELLER. 73 TO MY BOOKSELLER. This is from the third of the floe? s books Ben JoNSON. of epigrams. Bucklersbury was the street most affected by grocers and apothecaries. 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 calls For 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. 74 BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE. This is the eighty-sixth of the poet' } s first book of epigrams, and, like its im- Bkn JONSON. mediate predecessor, it was addressed to a gentleman bound in bonds of friendship to many of the men of genius of his time. WHEN I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks Upon thy well-made choice of friends and books ; Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends In making thy friends books, and thy books friends : Now must I give thy life and deed the voice Attending such a study, such a choice ; Where, though \ be love that to thy praise doth move, It was a knowledge that begat that love. IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON, 75 IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON. Charles Lamb. Written in 1824 for the daughter of his friend Bernard Barton. LITTLE Book, surnamed of white, 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 find Neatness of the owner's mind. Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By 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, / 76 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Amid strains of graver measure : Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure. Riddles dark, perplexing sense ; Darker meanings of offence ; What but shades — he banished hence. Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress. BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER. 77 BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER. A. Lang. Front i Ballades in Blue China? 1880. TN torrid heats of late July, A In March, beneath the bitter bise, 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 breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, 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 is Spes I 78 BALLADS OF BOOKS. 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 thaj: tease and please, Fame, love, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these — Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs ? BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM, 79 BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM. 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 day With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame). 80 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Oh grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With 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 life is worth living, and here we would stay For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. BALLADE OF THE BOOKMAN'S PARADISE. 8 1 BALLADE OF THE BOOKMAN'S PARADISE. A. Lang. From ' Rhymes a la Mode? 188, THERE is a 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 through The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies, O'er volumes old and volumes new, Within that Bookman's Paradise ! There treasures bound for Longepierre Keep 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 ! 82 BALLADS OF BOOKS. 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 boaquin still pursue Within that Bookman's Paradise ? THE ROWFANT BOOKS. 83 THE ROWFANT BOOKS. Ballade en guise de rondeau, written for A. Lang. the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker's books. 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 snow They 're dear, but most when tempests fall ; The folio towers above the row As 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 stall The Rowfant books ! The Rowfant books ! These long ago Were chained within some College hall ; These manuscripts retain the glow Of many a colored capital ; 84 BALLADS OF BOOKS. 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, magical As famed Armida's golden looks, They hold the Rhymer for their thrall, - The Rowfant books ! THE ROWFANT LIBRARY. 85 THE ROWFANT LIBRARY. A. Lang. Written for the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker s 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, But Bourhope's good enough for me," Among the green deep bosomed hills That guard St. Mary's Loch it lies, The silence of the pastures fills That yeoman's homely paradise ! Enough for him his mountain lake, His glen the burn goes singing through ; And Rowfant, when the thrushes wake, Might well seem Paradise to you ! For all is old, and tried, and dear, And all is fair, and all about The brook that murmurs from the mere Is dimpled with the rising trout. And when the skies of shorter days Are dark, and all the paths are mire, 86 BALLADS OF BOOKS. How kindly o'er your Books the blaze Sports from the cheerful study fire ; O'er Quartos, where our Fathers read Entranced, 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 rate The tome where Walton's hand revised His magical receipts for bait. Happy, who rich in toys like these Forgets a weary nation's ills, Who, from his study window sees The circle of the Sussex hills ! But back to town my Muse must fly, And taste the smoke, and list to them Who cry the News, and seem to cry (With each Gladstonian victory), Woe, woe unto Jerusalem ! # * During the General Election, November, 1885. GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY. 87 GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY. A. Lang. From ■ LongmatCs Magazine? July, 1886. SUPPOSE, when now the house is dumb, When lights are out, and ashes fall, — Suppose their ancient owners come To claim our spoils of shop and stall, Ah me ! within the narrow hall How strange a mob would meet and go, What famous folk would haunt them all, Octavo, quarto, folio ! The great Napoleon lays his hand Upon this eagle-headed N, That marks for his a pamphlet banned By all but scandal-loving men, — A libel from some nameless den Of Frankfort — Amaud, a la Sphere, Wherein one spilt, with venal pen, Lies o'er the loves of Moliere.* Another shade — he does not see " Boney," the foeman of his race — * ' Histoire des Intrigues Amoureuses de Moliere et de celles de sa femme. (A la Sphere.) A Francfort, chez Frederic Arnaud, mdcxcvii.' This anonymous tract has actually been attributed, among others, to Racine. The copy referred to is marked with a large N in red, with_an eagle's head. 88 BALLADS OF BOOKS. The great Sir Walter, this is he With that grave homely Border face. He claims his poem of the chase That rang Benvoirlich's valley through ; And this, that doth the lineage trace And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch ;• For these were his, and these he gave To one who dwelt beside the Peel, That murmurs with its tiny wave To join the Tweed at Ashestiel. Now thick as motes the shadows wheel, And find their own, and claim a share Of books wherein Ribou did deal, Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.t What famous folk of old are here ! A royal duke comes down to us, And greatly wants his Elzevir, His Pagan tutor, Lucius.t And Beckford claims an amorous Old heathen in morocco blue ; § * ■ The Lady of the Lake,' 1810. * The Lay of the Last Minstrel,' 1806. " To Mrs. Robert Laidlaw, Peel. From the Author." f ' Dictys Cretensis.' Apud Lambertum Roulland. Lut. Paris. 1680. In red morocco, with the arms of Colbert. I ' L. Annaei Senecae Opera Omnia.' Lug. Bat., apud Elzevirios. 1649. With book-plate of the Duke of Sussex. § * Stratonis Epigrammata.' Altenburgi, 1764. Straton bound up in one volume with Epictetus ! From the Beckford library. GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY. 89 And who demands Eobanus But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou ! * 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,t Schlegel,t and the rare Drummond of haunted Hawthornden.§ 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 || — Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves. Our names, like his, remembered not, Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves ! * * Opera Helii Eobani Hessi.' Yellow morocco, with the first arms of De Thou. Include a poem addressed " Lange, decus meum." Quantity of penultimate " Eobanus " taken for granted, metri gratid. t 'La Journ^e du Chretien.' Coutances, 1831. With inscription, • L6on Gambetta. Rue St. Honore\ Janvier 1, 1848." t Villoison's * Homer.' Venice, 1788. With Tessier's ticket and Schlegel's book-plate. § ' Les Essais de Michel.' Seigneur de Montaigne. " Pour Francois le Febvre de Lyon, 1695." With autograph of Gul. Drummond, and cipresso e palma. || " The little old foxed Moliere," once the property of William Pott, unknown to fame. 90 BALLADS OF BOOKS. At least in pleasant company We 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 ! THE BOOK BATTALION. 91 THE BOOK BATTALION. George Parsoi's Lathrop. Written for the present collection. WHEREVER I go, there 's a trusty battalion That 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 marshal There are no better soldiers than well-tried books. Dumb in their ranks on the shelves imprisoned, They never retreat. Give the word, and they '11 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 and Light laughter, all battle alike for the truth. Here are those who gave motive to sock and to bus- kin ; With critics, historians, poets galore ; 92 BALLADS OF BOOKS. A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin, Which Ruskin would hate from his heart 's very core ; Moliere ('99), an old calf -bound edition, " De Pierre Didot Vaine, 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 tattered Being 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 old Stand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithful Remind 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 battalion Of soldiers to serve you than well-tried books. ON FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS. 93 ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS. Walter Learned. Written for the present collection. T Cato's-Head in Russell Street A 1 These 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 beaux To ogle pretty faces ; While, filling many a Sedan chair With hoop and monstrous feather, In patch and powder London's fair Went trooping past together. Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer 's boy, with gown and cap For 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. 94 BALLADS OF BOOKS. And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was stitched within this volume, where Until 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 days And watch her at her binding. TOO MANY BOOKS, 95 TOO MANY BOOKS. 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 soul Sweated out thoughts when the o'er-burden'd brow Was powerless to control. Then would all future books be small and few, And, freed of dross, the soul's refined 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 flood Of 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, provides Sufficient and no more ? Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds, And from the stones, the thorns and fertile soil, 96 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Only enough to serve the world's great needs Rewards 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 find Some needful heart to touch ? Ah, who can say that even this blade of grass No mission has — superfluous as it looks ? Then wherefore feel oppressed and cry, Alas, There are too many books ! FROM A FL Y-LEAF. 97 FROM THE FLY-LEAF OF THE ROWFANT MONTAIGNE (FLORIO, 1603). 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 astray Till bought by Pope, a gift for Gay. Then, later on, betwixt my pages A 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 tomes Like Lowell's pointed sense, and Holmes', For me the halcyon days have past — I 'm here, and with a dunce at last. 98 BALLADS OF BOOKS. MY BOOKS. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Written in December, 1881. SADLY as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled 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. THE SOULS OF BOOKS. 99 THE SOULS OF BOOKS. Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton. From ' Earlier Poems? I. SIT here and muse ! — it is an antique room — High-roofd, with casements, through whose purple pane Unwilling Daylight steals amidst the gloom, Shy as a fearful stranger. There They reign (In loftier pomp than waking life had known), The Kings of Thought ! — not crown'd until the grave. When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb, The beggar Homer mounts the Monarch's throne ! Ye ever-living and imperial Souls, Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe, All that divide us from the clod ye gave ! — Law — Order — Love — Intelligence — the Sense Of Beauty — Music and the Minstrel's wreath ! — What were our wanderings if without your goals ? As air and light, the glory ye dispense Becomes our being — who of us can tell What he had been, had Cadmus never taught The art that fixes into form the thought — Had Plato never spoken from his cell, ioo BALLADS OF BOOKS. Or his high harp blind Homer never strung ? Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspere sung ! ii. Hark ! while we muse, without the walls is heard The various murmur of the laboring crowd, How still, within those archive-cells interr'd, The Calm Ones reign ! — and yet they rouse the loud Passions and tumults of the circling world ! From them, how many a youthful Tully caught The zest and ardor of the eager Bar ; From them, how many a young Ambition sought Gay meteors glancing o'er the sands afar — By them each restless wing has been unfurPd, And their ghosts urge each rival's rushing car ! They made yon Preacher zealous for the truth ; They made yon Poet wistful for the star ; Gave Age its pastime — fired the cheek of Youth — The unseen sires of all our beings are, — in. And now so still ! This, Cicero, is thy heart ; I hear it beating through each purple line. This is thyself, Anacreon — yet, thou art Wreath'd, as in Athens, with the Cnidian vine. I ope thy pages, Milton, and, behold, Thy spirit meets me in the haunted ground ! — Sublime and eloquent, as while, of old, II It flamed and sparkled in its crystal bound ; " * * ■ Comus.' THE SOULS OF BOOKS. 101 These are yourselves — your life of life ! The Wise, (Minstrel or Sage) out of their books are clay \ But in their books, as from their graves, they rise, Angels — that, side by side, upon our way, Walk with and warn us ! Hark ! the world so loud, And they, the movers of the world, so still ! What gives this beauty to the grave ? the shroud Scarce wraps the Poet, than at once there cease Envy and Hate ! " Nine cities claim him dead, Through which the living Homer begg'd his bread ! " And what the charm that can such health distil From wither'd leaves — oft poisons in their bloom ? We call some books immoral ! Do they live ? If so, believe me, Time hath made them pure. In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace — God wills that nothing evil shall endure ; The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole, As the dust leaves the disembodied soul ! Come from thy niche, Lucretius ! Thou didst give Man the black creed of Nothing in the tomb ! Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint ? No ; with a listless eye we pass it o'er, And linger only on the hues that paint The Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore. None learn from thee to cavil with their God ; None commune with thy genius to depart Without a loftier instinct of the heart. Thou mak'st no Atheist — thou but mak'st the mind 102 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Richer in gifts which Atheists best confute — Fancy and Thought ! T is these that from the sod Lift us ! The life which soars above the brute Ever and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's lute! Lo ! that grim Merriment of Hatred ; * — born Of him, — the Master-Mocker of Mankind, Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen, Voltaire's gay sarcasm seems a smile serene, — Do we not place it in our children's hands, Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled lands ? — God's and man's libel in that foul yahoo ! — Well, and what mischief can the libel do ? O impotence of Genius to belie Its glorious task — its mission from the sky ! Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scorn On aught the Man should love or Priest should mourn — And lo ! the book, from all its ends beguil'd, A harmless wonder to some happy child ! IV. All books grow homilies by time ; they are Temples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, we Who but for them, upon that inch of ground We call "The Present," from the cell could see No daylight trembling on the dungeon bar ; Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round, * \ Gulliver's Travels.' THE SOULS OF BOOKS. 103 And feel the Near less household than the Far ! Traverse all space, and number every star, There is no Past, so long as Books shall live ! A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again For him who seeks yon well ; lost cities give Up their untarnish'd wonders, and the reign Of Jove revives and Saturn : — at our will Rise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill \ Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe ; * — along Leucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song ; With ^Egypt's Queen once more we sail the Nile, And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile : — Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er, Ope but that page — lo, Babylon once more ! v. Ye make the Past our heritage and home : And is this all ? No ; by each prophet-sage — No ; by the herald souls that Greece and Rome Sent forth, like hymns, to greet the Morning Star That rose on Bethlehem — by thy golden page, Melodious Plato — by thy solemn dreams, World-wearied Tully ! — and, above ye all, By This, the Everlasting Monument Of God to mortals, on whose front the beams Flash glory-breathing day — our lights ye are To the dark Bourne beyond ; in you are sent The types of Truths whose life is The To-come ; In you soars up the Adam from the fall ; * Plut. in « Vit. Cim.' 104 BALLADS OF BOOKS. In you the Future as the Past is given — Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth ; — Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven, Without one gravestone left upon the Earth ? DE LIB R IS. 105 DE LIBRIS. Cosmo Monkhousk. Written for the present collection. TRUE — there are books and books. There's Gray, For instance, and there 's Bacon \ There 's Longfellow, and Monstrelet, And also Colton's ' Lacon,' With * Laws of Whist ' and those of Libel, And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible. And some are dear as friends, and some We keep because we need them ; And some we ward from worm and thumb, And love too well to read them. My own are poor, and mostly new, But I Ve an Elzevir or two. That as a gift is prized, the next For trouble in the finding ; This Aldine for its early text, That Plantin for the binding 5 This sorry Herrick hides a flower, The record of one perfect hour. 106 BALLADS OF BOOKS. But whether it be worth or looks We gently love or strongly, Such virtue doth reside in books We scarce can love them wrongly ; To sages an eternal school, A hobby (harmless) to the fool. Nor altogether fool is he Who orders, free from doubt, Those books which " no good library Should ever be without," And blandly locks the well-glazed door On tomes that issue never more. Less may we scorn his cases grand, Where safely, surely linger Fair virgin fields of type, unscanned And innocent of finger. There rest, preserved from dust accurst, The first editions — and the worst. And least of all should we that write With easy jest deride them, Who hope to leave when "lost to sight " The best of us inside them, Dear shrines ! where many a scribbler's name Has lasted — longer than his fame. EX LIBRIS. 107 EX LIBRIS. Arthur J. Munby. Written for the present collection. MAN that is born of woman finds a charm In that which he is born of. She it is Who moulds him with a frown or with a kiss To good or ill, to welfare or to harm : But, when he has attain'd her soft round arm And drawn it through his own, and made her his, He through her eyes beholds a wider bliss, As sweet as that she gives him, and as warm. What bliss ? We dare not name it : her fond looks Are jealous too; she hardly understands, £irt by her children's laughter or their cries, The stately smooth companionship of books : And yet to her we owe it, to her hands And to her heart, that books can make us wise. io8 BALLADS OF BOOKS. ON AN INSCRIPTION. " Edward Danenhill : Book given him by Joseph IVise, April ye 27 th , 1741" Arthur J. Munby. was the inscription in a copy of Ca- rew's ' Poems ' (/6j/). Written for the present collection. A MAN unknown this volume gave, So long since, to his unknown friend, Ages ago, their lives had end, And each in some obscurest grave Lies mixt with earth : none now would care To ask or who or what they were. But, though these two are underground, Their book is here, all safe and sound ; And he who wrote it (yea, and more Than a whole hundred years before) He, the trim courtier, old Carew, And all the loves he feign'd or knew, Have won from Aphrodite's eye Some show of immortality. 'T is ever thus ; by Nature's will The gift outlasts the giver still ; And Love itself lives not so long As doth a lover's feeblest song. But doubly hard is that man's case, For whom and for his earnest rhymes Neither his own nor after-times s ON AN INSCRIPTION 1 09 Have any work, have any place : Who through a hundred years shall find No echoing voice, no answering mind ; And, when this tann'd and tawny page Has one more century of age, And others buy the book anew, Because they care for old Carew, Not one who reads shall care or know What name was his, who owns it now : But all he wrote and all he did Shall be in such oblivion hid As hides the blurr'd and broken stones That cover his forgotten bones. HO BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO MY BOOKS. Caroline Norton. From the 'Dream and other Poems. 1 1840. SILENT companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought ; Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well. * DESUL TOR Y READING: 1 1 1 < DESULTORY READING.' pup Front the London 'Spectator ' of Jan- r * "* r ' uary 16, 1886. O FINEST essence of delicious rest ! To bid for some short space the busy mill Of anxious, ever-grinding thought be still ; And let the weary brain and throbbing breast Be by another's cooling hand caressed. This volume in my hand, I hold a charm Which lifts me out of reach of wrong or harm. I sail away from trouble ; and most blessed Of every blessing, can myself forget : Can rise above the instance low and poor Into the mighty law that governs yet. This hinged cover, like a well hung door, Shuts out the noises of the jangling day, These fair leaves fan unwelcome thoughts away. BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE BOOKWORM. THOMAS PAKNELL. *>%*** g£ ^ *>** * COME hither, boy, we li hunt to-day The bookworm, ravening beast of prey, Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds, As fame reports it, with the gods. Him frantic hunger wildly drives Against a thousand authors' lives : Through all the fields of wit he flies ; Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, With horns without, and tusks within, And scales to serve him for a skin. Observe him nearly, lest he climb To wound the bards of ancient time, Or down the vale of fancy go To tear some modern wretch below. On every corner fix thine eye, Or ten to one he slips thee by. See where his teeth a passage eat : We '11 rouse him from his deep retreat. But who the shelter 's forc'd to give ? *T is sacred Virgil, as I live ! From leaf to leaf, from song to song He draws the tadpole form along, THE BOOKWORM. 1 13 He mounts the gilded edge before, He 's up, he scuds the cover o'er, He turns, he doubles, there he past, And here we have him, caught at last. Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse The sweetest servants of the Muse — Nay, never offer to deny, I took thee in the fact to fly. His rose nipt in every page, My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage ; By thee my Ovid wounded lies ; By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies ; Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd The work of love in Biddy Floyd ; They rent Belinda's locks away, And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. For all, for every single deed, Relentless justice bids thee bleed : Then fall a victim to the Nine Myself the priest, my desk the shrine. Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To pile a sacred altar here : Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ \ You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ; Pray take your mortal bards again. Come, bind the victim, — there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes H4 BALLADS OF BOOKS. This venerable dust I lay From manuscripts just swept away. The goblet in my hand I take, For the libation 's yet to make : A health to poets ! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise ; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fuTd with party rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses, make them poor again. Now bring the weapon, yonder blade With which my tuneful pens are made. I strike the scales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound ; The sacred altar floats with red, And now he dies, and now he 's dead. How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath the hand ! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, And see what dangers threat the year : Ye gods ! what sonnet on a wench ! What lean translations out of French ! 'T is plain, this lobe is so unsound, S — prints, before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene The sacred altar should be clean. O had I Shadwell 's second bays, Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays ! THE BOOKWORM. 115 (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now,) I 'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, That only way you please the Nine : But since I chance to want these two, I '11 make the songs of Durfey do. Rent from the corps, on yonder pin, I hang the scales that brac'd it in ; I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down. " This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, These, Parnell, glorying in the feat Hung on these shelves, the Muses seat. Here Ignorance and Hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round ; Here Ignorance and Hunger fell Two foes in one I sent to hell. Ye poets who my labors see Come share the triumph all with me ! Ye critics, born to vex the Muse, Go mourn the grand ally you lose ! " Il6 BALLADS OF BOOKS. AMONG MY BOOKS. Samuel Minturn Peck. From ' Cap and Bells? 1886. AMONG my books — what rest is there From wasting woes ! what balm for care ! If ills appall or clouds hang low, And drooping, dim the fleeting show, I revel still in visions rare. At will I breathe the classic air, The wanderings of Ulysses share ; Or see the plume of Bayard flow Among my books. Whatever face the world may wear — If Lillian has no smile to spare, For others let her beauty blow, Such favors I can well forego ; Perchance forget the frowning fair Among my books. A RUINED LIBRARY, 1 17 A RUINED LIBRARY. Walter Herries Pollock. Written for the present collection. IMPERIOUS Caesar dead and turn'd to clay Might stop a hole to keep the wind away." Here the live thought of buried Caesar's brain Has served a lazy slut to lay the train That lights a dunce's fire. Here Homer 's seen All torn or crumpled in the pettish spleen Of some spoilt urchin. Here a leaf from Glanvil Is reft to mark a place in * On the Anvil.' Here, too, a heavy-blotted Shakspere's page Holds up an inky mirror to the age ; Here looking round you 're but too sure to see a Heart-breaking wreck from the * Via Jacobaea ; \ Here some rare pamphlet, long a-missing, lurks In an odd volume of ' Lord Bacon's Works \ ' Here may you find a Stillingfleet or Blair Usurp the binding of a lost Voltaire ; And here a tattered Boyle doth gape ungently Upon a damp-disfigured ' Life of Bentley.' Here half a Rabelais jostles for position The quarter of a ' Spanish Inquisition ; ' Here Young's * Night Thoughts ' lie mixed with Swinburne's ' Ballads ' n8 BALLADS OF BOOKS. 'Mid scraps of works on Poisons and on Salads ; And here a rent and gilt-edged Sterne doth lack ray Of sun that falls upon a bulging Thackeray ; Here — but the tale 's too sad at length to tell How a book-heaven 's been turned to a book-hell. MY BOOKS. 119 MY BOOKS. Bryan Waller Procter. From l An A utobiographical Frag- (Barry Cornwall.) ment? 1877. ALL round the room my silent servants wait, — My friends in every season, bright and dim ; Angels and seraphim Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low, And spirits of the skies all come and go Early and late ; All from the old world's divine and distant date, From the sublimer few, Down to the poet who but yester-eve Sang sweet and made us grieve, All come, assembling here in order due. And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate, With Erato and all her vernal sighs, Great Clio with her victories elate, Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes. friends, whom chance and change can never harm, Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die, Within whose folding soft eternal charm 1 love to He, And meditate upon your verse that flows, And fertilizes whereso'er it goes, Whether BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO MY BOOKS ON PARTING WITH TREM. The sale of the famous Roscoe library , wt . .. t> ~„~~ made necessary by reverses in business, William Roscoe. Uok place in % ugmt and Septemberf 1816. AS one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile, To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart, — Thus, loved associates ! chiefs of elder Art ! Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. AMONG MY BOOKS. 12 1 AMONG MY BOOKS. Francis St. Clair-Erskine, jsv™» * c^^/c » r*** Earl of Rosslyn. **"* •»*«'*■ l88 3' ALONE, 'midst living works of mighty dead, Poets and Scholars versed in history's lore, With thoughts that reached beyond them and before, I dream, and leave their glorious works unread ; Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head. I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still more I fail when I would delve the depths of yore, And learn old Truths of modern lies instead ; The shelves frown on me blackly, with a life That ne'er can die, and helpless to begin, I can but own my weakness, and deplore This waste, this barren brain, ah ! once so rife With hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin, Great Ghosts that wander on the Eternal Shore. 122 BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE LIBRARY. One of the excerpts from * Occasional John Godfrey Saxe. Poems ' included in his ' Complete Poems."* HERE, e'en the sturdy democrat may find, Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind 5 While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown, How Learning's patents abrogate their own. A goodly company and fair to see ; Royal plebeians ; earls of low degree ; Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime ; Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime ; Crowd here together like the quaint array Of jostling neighbors on a market day. Homer and Milton, — can we call them blind ? — Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind ; Shakspere, who calmly looked creation through, " Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new ; " Plato the sage, so thoughtful and serene, He seems a prophet by his heavenly mien ; Shrewd Socrates, whose philosophic power Xantippe proved in many a trying hour ; And Aristophanes, whose humor run In vain endeavor to be-" cloud " the sun ; Majestic ^Eschylus, whose glowing page Holds half the grandeur of the Athenian stage ; THE LIBRARY. 123 Pindar, whose odes, replete with heavenly fire, Proclaim the master of the Grecian lyre ; Anacreon, famed for many a luscious line Devote to Venus and the god of wine. I love vast libraries ; yet there is a doubt If one be better with them or without, — Unless he use them wisely, and indeed, Knows the high art of what and how to read, At learning's fountain it is sweet to drink, But 't is a nobler privilege to think ; And oft from books apart, the thirsting mind May make the nectar which it cannot find, 'T is well to borrow from the good and great ; 'T is wise to learn ; 't is godlike to create ! 124 BALLADS OF BOOKS. IN THE LIBRARY. Clinton Scollard. f ™& Wiih ^ed and Lyre: FROM the oriels one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon. In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow. Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long deserted aisles ; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look. Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb ; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet ; Poets, sages — all who wrought In the crucible of thought. Day by day as seasons glide On the great eternal tide, Noiselessly they gather thus In the twilight beauteous, IN THE LIBRARY. 125 Hold communion each with each, Closer than our earthly speech, Till within the east are born Premonitions of the morn ! 126 BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE BOOK-HUNTER. Frank Dempster Sherman. ^nZJ^'^ Magazine ' A CUP of coffee, eggs, and rolls Sustain him on his morning strolls : Unconscious of the passers-by, He trudges on with downcast eye ; He wears a queer old hat and coat, Suggestive of a style remote ; His manner is preoccupied, — A shambling gait, from side to side. For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop Is all in vain, — he does not stop. His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves Where musty volumes hide themselves, — Rare prints of poetry and prose, And quaintly lettered folios, — Perchance a parchment manuscript, In some forgotten corner slipped, Or monk-illumined missal bound In vellum with brass clasps around ; These are the pictured things that throng His mind the while he walks along. THE BOOK-HUNTER. 127 A dingy street, a cellar dim, With book-lined walls, suffices him. The dust is white upon his sleeves ; He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves With just the same religious look That priests give to the Holy Book. He does not heed the stifling air If so he find a treasure there. He knows rare books, like precious wines, Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines ; For him delicious flavors dwell In books as in old Muscatel ; He finds in features of the type A clew to prove the grape was ripe. And when he leaves this dismal place, Behold, a smile lights up his face ! Upon his cheeks a genial glow, — Within his hand Boccaccio, A first edition worn with age, " Firenze " on the title-page. 128 BALLADS OF BOOKS. THE LIBRARY. Robert Southey. Written at Keswick in 1818. MY days among the Dead are past ; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old ; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe ; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been dedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn ; Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them shall be, THE LIBRARY. 129 And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity ; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. 130 BALLADS OF BOOKS. PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER. Robert Louis Stevenson. From l A Child 's Garden of Verses. 1 i8Sj. SUMMER fading, winter comes — Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon \ Still we find the flowing brooks And the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks, In the picture story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books ? COMPANIONS. 131 COMPANIONS. A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions : men, women, and books. Sir John Davys. Richard Henry Stoddard. From the ' Atlantic Monthly? June, 1877. WE have companions, comrade mine : Jolly good fellows, tried and true, Are filling their cups with the Rhenish wine, And pledging each other, as I do you. Never a man in all the land But has, in his hour of need, a friend, Who stretches to him a helping hand And stands by him to the bitter end. If not before, there is comfort then, In the strong companionship of men. But better than that, old friend of mine, Is the love of woman, the life of life, Whether in maiden's eyes it shine, Or melts in the tender kiss of wife ; A heart contented to feel, not know, That finds in the other its sole delight ; White hands that are loath to let us go, The tenderness that is more than might ! On earth below, in heaven above, Is there anything better than woman's love ? 132 BALLADS OF BOOKS. I do not say so, companion mine, For what, without it, would I be here ? It lightens my troubles, like this good wine, And, if I must weep, sheds tear for tear ! But books, old friends that are always new, Of all good things that we know are best ; They never forsake us, as others do, And never disturb our inward rest. Here is truth in a world of lies, And all that in man is great and wise ! Better than men and women, friend, That are dust, though dear in our joy and pain, Are the books their cunning hands have penned, For they depart, but the books remain ; Through these they speak to us what was best In the loving heart and the noble mind : All their royal souls possessed Belongs forever to all mankind ! When others fail him, the wise man looks To the sure companionship of books. THE BOOK OF LIFE, 133 THE BOOK OF LIFE. A Bibliographical Melody, printed in Richard Thomson. 1820 at the press of John Johnson as a gift to the members of the Rox- burghe Club. THAT Life is a Comedy oft hath been shown, By all who Mortality's changes have known ; But more like a Volume its actions appear, Where each Day is a Page and each Chapter a year. 'T is a Manuscript Time shall full surely unfold, Though with Black- Letter shaded, or shining with gold; The Initial, like Youth, glitters bright on its Page, But its Text is as dark — as the gloom of Old Age. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. Though the Title stands first it can little declare The Contents which the Pages ensuing shall bear ; As little the first day of Life can explain , The succeeding events which shall glide in its train, The Book follows next, and, delighted, we trace An Elzevir's beauty, a Guttemberg's grace ; Thus on pleasure we gaze with as raptured an eye, Till, cut off like a Volume imperfect, we die ! Then Life 's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. 134 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Yet e'en thus imperfect, complete, or defaced, The skill of the Printer is still to be traced ; And though death bend us early in life to his will, The wise hand of our Author is visible still. Like the Colophon lines is the Epitaph's lay, Which tells of what age and what nation our day, And, like the Device of the Printer, we bear The form of the Founder, whose Image we wear. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. The work thus completed its Boards shall inclose, Till a Binding more bright and more beauteous it shows ; And who can deny, when Life's Vision hath past, That the dark Boards of Death shall surround us at last. Yet our Volume illumed with fresh splendors shall rise, To be gazed at by Angels, and read to the skies, Reviewed by its Author, revised by his Pen, In a fair new Edition to flourish again. Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on thy breast, And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. ON CERTAIN BOOKS. 135 ON CERTAIN BOOKS. Charles Tennyson Turner. From * Sonnets.' 1864. FAITH and fixt hope these pages may peruse, And still be faith and hope ; but, O ye winds ! Blow them far off from all unstable minds, And foolish grasping hands of youth ! Ye dews Of heaven ! be pleased to rot them where they fall, Lest loitering boys their fancies should abuse, And they get harm by chance, that cannot choose ; So be they stain'd and sodden, each and all ! And if, perforce, on dry and gusty days, Upon the breeze some truant leaf should rise, Brittle with many weathers, to the skies, Or flit and dodge about the public ways — Man's choral shout, or organ's peal of praise Shall shake it into dust, like older lies. I3 6 BALLADS OF BOOKS. TO HIS BOOKS. Hrvrv Vattohan From 'S ilex Scintillans : Sacred Poems Henry VAUGHAN. and Pious Ejaculations." ib 7 8. BRIGHT books : perspectives on our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning in shining thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls in their milkie way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarged spirits, kind heaven's white decoys 1 Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers Which in commerce with light spend all their hours ; Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. Beneath you all is dark and a dead night, Which whoso lives in wants both health and sight. By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely ; for as great a store Have we of books as bees, of herbs, or more ; And the great task to try, then know, the good, To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare scant performance. For man dies Oft ere 't is done, while the bee feeds and flies. But you were all choice flowers ; all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best ; TO HIS BOOKS. 137 And I amidst you all am turned to weed ! Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be Content to know what was too much for thee ! 138 BALLADS OF BOOKS, LITERATURE AND NATURE. Samuel Waddington. Written for the present collection. y TV /TID Cambrian heights around Dolgelly vale, IV A What time we scaled great Cader's rugged pile, Or loitered idly where still meadows smile Beside the Mawddach-stream, or far Cynfael — Nor tome, nor rhythmic page, nor pastoral tale, Our summer-sated senses would beguile ; Or lull our ears to melody, the while The voiceful rill ran lilting down the dale. In London town once more — behold, once more The old delight returns ! 'Mid heights how vast, In Milton's verse, through what dim paths we wind ; How Keats's canvas glows, and Wordsworth's lore, As tarn or torrent pure, by none surpass' d, Sheds light and love — unfathomed, undefined. THE LIBRARY. 139 THE LIBRARY. John Grhhnlhap Whiter. *3&&££2f ° f ** ***** " u T ET there be Light ! " God spake of old, J 4 And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame Of nature, life and order came. Faint was the light at first that shone On giant fern and mastodon, On half-formed plant and beast of prey, And man as rude and wild as they. Age after age, like waves o'erran The earth, uplifting brute and man ; And mind, at length, in symbols dark Its meanings traced on stone and bark. On leaf of palm, on sedge-wrought roll, On plastic clay and leathern scroll, Man wrote his thoughts ; the ages passed, And lo ! the Press was found at last ! Then dead souls woke ; the thoughts of men Whose bones were dust revived again ; 140 BALLADS OF BOOKS. The cloisters silence found a tongue, Old prophets spake, old poets sung. And here, to-day, the dead look down, The kings of mind again we crown ; We hear the voices lost so long, The sage's word, the sibyl's song. Here Greek and Roman find themselves Alive along these crowded shelves ; And Shakspere treads again his stage, And Chaucer paints anew his age. As if some Pantheon's marbles broke Their stony trance, and lived and spoke, Life thrills along the alcoved hall, The lords of thought awake our call. THE COUNTRY SQUIRE. 141 THE COUNTRY SQUIRE. Tomas Yriarte. A ^lZ?a f TF^ lati0n ° f