Ballads of Books Part 4

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; 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 wasn'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 gra.s.s, And set your thoughts to the wind's low tunes, And saw your children rise up and pa.s.s-- 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.

_Burns saw a splendidly bound but sadly neglected copy of Shakspere in the_ ROBERT BURNS. _library of a n.o.bleman 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.

CATULLUS TO HIS BOOK.

QVOI DONO LEPIDVM NOVVM LIBELLVM.

CAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS. _Translated by A. Lang expressly 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.

TO J. H. P.

BEVERLY CHEW. _From the 'Critic' of March 13, 1886._

Old Books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight On frontispiece or t.i.tle-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.

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, 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 h.o.a.rd.

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.

AN INVOCATION IN A LIBRARY.

HELEN GRAY CONE. _From 'Oberon and Puck.' 1885._

O brotherhood, with bay-crowned brows undaunted, Who pa.s.sed 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: