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Ballade of the Bookworm

FAR 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 bore
We fill not now, nor wander free,

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 loved, I love them still!

ENVOY!

Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,
We bow submissive to thy will,

Ah grant, by some benign decree,

The Books I loved-to love them still.

My Books

Andrew Lang.

THEY

HEY dwell in the odour of camphor,
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are warranted early editions,"

66

These worshipful tomes of mine ;

In their creamiest "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 Jesuit's Horace,
And the little cropped Molière,-

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 books I read.

Austin Dobson.

To Live Merrily, and to Trust to Good Verses

OW is the time for mirth,

Now

Nor cheek or tongue be dumbe :

For with the flowrie earth

The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;

For now each tree do's weare

(Made of her Pap and Gum)
Rich beads of Amber here.

Now raignes the Rose, and now
Th' Arabian Dew besmears

My uncontrolled brow,

And my retorted haires.

Homer, this Health to thee,

In Sack of such a kind, That it wo'd make thee see, Though thou wert ne'r so blind.

Next, Virgil, Ile call forth,

To pledge this second Health In Wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian Common-wealth.

A Goblet next Ile drink

To Ovid; and suppose,

Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one Nose.

Then this immensive cup

Of Aromatike wine,

Catullus, I quaffe up

To that Terce Muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat;

O Bacchus coole thy Raies!

Or frantick I shall eate

Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bayes.

Round, round the roof do's run;

And being ravisht thus, Come, I will drink a Tun

To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next,

This flood I drink to thee:

But stay; I see a Text,

That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies

Here burnt, whose small return

Of ashes, scarce suffice

To fill a little Urne.

Trust to good Verses, then ;
They onely will aspire,
When Pyramids, as men,
Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all Bodies meet

In Lethe to be drown'd;

Then onely Numbers sweet

With endless life are crown'd.

Robert Herrick.

Ode on the Poets

OARDS of Passion and of Mirth,

BARD

Ye have left your souls on earth!

Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-liv'd in regions new?

Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;

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