Ballade of the Bookworm FAR in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, One gift the Fairies gave me : (Three Take all, but leave my Books to me! 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, 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, 66 These worshipful tomes of mine ; In their creamiest "Oxford vellum," They are jewels of price, I grant ;- Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed, They have Bedford's daintiest dress, For the row that I prize is yonder, Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered, And the Burton I bought for a florin, 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) Now raignes the Rose, and now 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 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 ; 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, Yes, and those of heaven commune |