Ballads of Books Part 8

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; 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 gla.s.s 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;

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): 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!

OUR BOOK-SHELVES.

THOMAS GORDON HAKE. _From the 'State' of April 17, 1886._

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 t.i.tle!

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 rehea.r.s.e 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?

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?

TO HIS BOOK.

ROBERT HERRICK. _Prefixed to 'Hesperides.' 1648._

While thou didst keep thy candor undefiled, Dearly I loved thee, as my first-born child; But when I sent thee wantonly to 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'll smile, if bad I'll sigh for thee.

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; 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.

TO HIS BOOKS.

_Imitated by Austin Dobson from the_ Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS. _'Epistles,' i. 20, for the present collection._

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; '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'll like you while you're young.

When you are old, you'll pa.s.s among The Great Unwashed,--then thumbed and sped, Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, Or Utica, for banishment!

And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain, Wryly, as he who, like a fool, Pushed o'er the cliff his restive mule.

Stay, there is worse behind. In 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.