S'/EX.LIBKIS UNIVERSI1Y OF CALIFORNIA f O JOHN HENRY NASH LIBRARY SAN FRANCISCO <8> PRESENTED TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA ROBERT GORDON SPROUL, PRESIDENT. <$> BY MR.ANDMRS.MILTON S.RAY CECILY, VIRGINIA ANDROSALYN RAY AND THE RAY OIL BURNER ODMPANY LIBRARY UMVERSJTY Of CALIFORNIA SAND1EQO UY F WLIFOKNIA, SAN DII60 IA JOLIA CALIFORNIA . Book Lovers' Verse BOOK LOVERS' VERSE Being Songs of Books and Bookmen Compiled from English and American Authors By HOWARD S. RUDDY Knowing I loted my books, he furnished me With volumes that I prize abote my Dukedom The Tempest INDIANAPOLIS THE BOWEN- MERRILL CO. COPYBIGHT 1899 BY THE BOWEN-MEERILL CO. iv TO ME. SAMUEL D. LEE Introduction WHILE the love of books has been ex- pressed with some degree of generality by the bookmen of mediaeval and of modern times, in learned treatise and in pleasing meter, when one undertakes an inquiry into the subject, the poverty of available material seems out of proportion to the inspiration which the subject might have been expected to possess. Perhaps it should not be as- sumed that the poets are not book-lovers themselves, or that, being book-lovers, they are unable to gratify a taste for the pos- session of books because they are poets; but rather that their muse the more readily responds to the seductions of a pair of blue eyes, or a tress of golden hair, or even the fleeting glimpse of an arched instep, in- spirations that are illusive and transitory when measured against the steadfastness of good books, "... the best of friends, That can not be estranged or take offense Howe'er neglected, but return at will With the old friendship." Be that as it may, careful research dis- closes only the apparent indifference in vii Introduction which some of the bards of first estate have held their libraries ; for it is a safe conclu- sion that the true bibliophile would not withhold his meed of praise from these rep- resentatives of the great intellects of all ages. It is not possible, perhaps, to ascertain just when the poets began to sing the praises of books, but the verses of Alcuin in the lat- ter part of the eighth century are evidence of that blossoming of love for the wisdom of the sages, then so difficult of gratification ; a love which grew upon what it fed, until in this day it finds expression in the yearnings, so plaintively expressed, of the lamented bibliomaniac of Buena Park "Oh for a booke and a shady nooke Eyther in doore or out, With the greene leaves whispering overhead, Or the streete cryes all about ; Where I maie reade all at my ease Both of the newe and old, For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde 1" The editor takes the sweet unction to his soul that his collection of the songs of book- land is more extensive than any that has yet been presented, but if it is in any way lacking it may not be laid to his indiffer- ence; but rather to that frugality which Introduction sometimes seizes humanity for no apparent reason. Yet he has to acknowledge, and does so with a proper feeling of gratitude, the kindness of many publishers and au- thors who have so readily given permission for the use of their verses, and if by chance any have been overlooked it will not have been due to a disregard of the rights of property, but to the impossibility of identi- fying verses which have been caught in their rounds of the press. To these apolo- gies are hereby tendered. H. S. E. ROCHESTEK, N. Y. Publishers' Note To ALL authors and publishers, whose work is included in this volume, we are in- debted for their generosity. We should feel remiss, however, if we did not especially acknowledge our gratitude to Houghton, Mifflin & Company, The Century Company, The Bookman, The Philistine, P. F. Collier, D. Appleton & Company, G. P. Putnam's Sons, Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Richard Henry Stoddard, Mr. Frank L. Stanton, Mr. Maurice Francis Egan, Mr. Charles R. Williams, Mr. John Kendrick Bangs, President John H. Finley, Mr. Clin- ton Scollard, Mr. Edmund Clarence Sted- man, and Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, not only for their courtesy in contributing ma- terial to the book, but also for their many kindly suggestions during its preparation and their evident sympathy with the edi- tor's purpose to compile from many sources a volume of verse that will be a joy to the book-lover and the bibliomaniac. Contents Aimless Beading William Cowper, 136 Altruism Rev. William Wood, 126 Among My Books Samuel Minturn Peck, 204 Annetta Jones, Her Book Frank L. Stanton, 43 An Uncut Copy John Kendrick Bangs, 92 At a Book Store Oliver Wendell Holmes, 29 Attentive Book Seller, The Irving Browne, 155 Ballade of Book Making, A Justin Huntley McCarthy, 85 Ballade of Confession, A Harold McGrath, 89 Ballade of Montaigne, PL Arthur Macy, 17 Ballade of Poor Book-worms The Century Magazine, 5 Betty Barnes, the Book Burner Rosamund Marriott- Watson, 117 Bibliomaniac's Assignment of Binders, The Irving Browne, 137 Bibliomaniac's Bride Eugene Field, 201 Bibliophile. The A If r ed C. Brant, 21 Boccaccio Eugene Field, 40 Book, The Emily Dickinson, 18 Book, The Post Wheeler, 110 Book, The John Greenleaf Whittier, 210 Book Auction, The W. H. Venable, 175 Book Battalion, The George Parsons Lathrop, 132 Book Brotherhood Edward Foskett, 67 Book by the Brook, A James Freeman Clarke, 186 Book Collector, The A lexander Barclay, 167 Book I've Bead Before, The Charles R. Bal- lard, 101 xiii Contents Book Lover's Apologia, A Harriette C. 8. Buckham, S3 Book Lover's Panegyric, A Cyril M. Drew, 59 Bookman's Catch James Whitcomb Riley, 61 Bookman's Complaint of his Lady, A Richard Le Oallienne, 165 Book of Poems, A William R. Jacobs, 163 Books George W. Armstrong, 179 Books Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 98 Books Cyril M. Drew, 177 Books A If red Lavington, 104 Books William Wordsworth, 140 Books I Ought to Bead, The Abbie Farwell Brown, 73 Bookstall, The Clinton Scollard, 197 Bookworm, The Austin Dobson, 37 Bookworm Does not Care for Nature, The Irving Browne, 143 Bookworms, The Robert Burns, 52 Bookworm's Pledge, The C, D. Raymer, 93 Burton's Anatomy Andrew Lang, 3 Caravansary, The Richard Henry Stoddard, 203 Chrysalis of a Bookworm, The Maurice Francis Egan, 16 Companions Richard Henry Stoddard, 19 Collector's Catalogue, A The Hartford Post, 147 Dedication to Cornelius Nepos Cattullus, 216 Disappointed Faddist, A The Boston Tran- script, 131 . Dreams John Kendrick Bangs, 96 Envoy Robert Louis Stevenson, 217 Ext ra Illustrating Harry B. Smith, 113 Fable for Critics, A James Russell Lowell, 105 Fellow Feeling The Chicago Record, 12 Fogy, A Will T. Hale, 187 For a Copy of " The Compleat Angler " Austin Dobson, 195 Friends in Solitude John Moore, 185 JUY Contents Prom " Idylls and Epigrams "Richard Qarnett, 39 From Phyllis Caroline Duer, 139 Give Me the Old Robert Hinchley Messenger, 25 Good Book, A Ralph Waldo Emerson, 6 His Favorite Book The Chicago Record, 159 How a Bibliomaniac Binds his Books Irving Browne, 141 How to Read Me Walter Savage Landor, 66 In a Book of Old Plays Walter Learned, 191 In Arcady Charles T. Lusted, 176 In a Library Richard Burton, 103 In a Library Emily Dickinson, 69 In a Library Tudor Jenks, 55 In a Library A lice Sawtelle Randall, 81 In an Old Library John Todhunter, 153 In an Old Library Get* Turner, 181 In the Library./?. V. 8. Herbert, 47 In the Library Clinton Scollard, 88 Invocation in a Library, An Helen Gray Cone, 183 lo Grolierii et Axoi-Comm Halkett Lord, 78 Johnny, Get Your Glossary The Sketch, 193 Land of Story Books, The Robert Louis Stevenson, 35 Lay of the Grolierite, The W. D. Ellwanger, 97 Legend of the Strand, A. John Kendrick Bangs, 45 Library, The John Greenleaf Whitiier, 149 Library of a Gentleman Deceased The Sketch, 209 Library of York Cathedral, The Alcuin, 171 Lines fer Isaac Bradwell James Whitcomb Riley, 54 Lines to a Book Borrower F. C., 198 Little Book, A Frank L. Stanton, 215 Little Bookworm, A Monroe H. Rosen/eld, 205 Marcus Varro Eugene Field, 27 My Books Austin Dobson, 15 My Books 8. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald, 72 My Books Willis Fletcher Johnson, 23 My Books Nathan M. Levy, 71 XV Contents My Books Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1 My Books Justin Huntley McCarthy, 83 My Books Alice Sawtelle Randall, 145 My Books-J. Williams, 123 My Harem Jeremiah Mahoney, 211 My Library 99 My Lord the Book John Kendrick Bangs, 118 My Presentation Book-Case William Sharp, 95 Neglected Poet in a Library, A Adam Quince, 42 Nulla Retrorsum 207 Of My Books Charles Washington Coleman, 74 Of Reading Martin Farquhar Tupper, 120 Of the Book Hunter Andrew Lang, 109 Old and New 119 Old Books 192 Old Books, The The Spectator, 8 Old Books Are Best Beverly Chew, 63 Old Friends, Old Books Charles R. Williams, 134 On Lamb's Specimens of Dramatic Poets A. C. Swinburne, 111 Other " Saints and Sinners' Corner" Johannes Hustonius Finleius, 127 Personal Talk William Wordsworth, 77 Pleasant World of Books, The Margaret E. Songster, 160 Poems Here at Home, The James Whitcomb Riley, 79 Eeligio Medici John Todhunter, 151 Scholar and His Books, The Chaucer, 65 Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe H. C. Bunner, 199 Solace of Books, The The Spectator, 1 Sonnet on Parting with his Books William Roscoe, 170 Sonnet 77 Shakespeare, 64 Student, The Henry Wadsivorth Longfellow, 53 These Books of Mine Eugene Field, 49 Thoughts in a Library Anne C. Lynch Bolta, 169 Three Good Things Charles O. D. Roberts, 135 xvi Contents Toast to Omar Khayyfitn Theodore Watts- Dunton, 156 To an Old Book Edgar Greenleaf Bradford, 107 To Caliph Omar Irving Browne, 48 To his Book Rev. Canon Howe's translation of Horace, 188 To My Good Master James Whitcomb Riley, 87 Too Many Books Robert Leighton, 213 To Robert Herrick The Philistine, 125 To the Book of Follies Thomas Moore, 91 Triolet to Her Husband F. Fertiault, 62 Truth About Horace, The Eugene Field, 51 Two Greeks Meredith Nicholson, 58 Verses in a Library John Kendrick Bangs, 173 Volume of Dante, A. Caroline Wilder Fellows, 26 Wiser than Books Katrina Trask, 90 With a Copy of Herrick Edmund Gosse, 212 With a Copy of the Iliad Edmund Clarence Stedman, 108 With Pipe and Book Richard Le Gallienne, 146 Written in "A Complete Angler" William Wordsworth, 84 Young Wife's Plaint, The 115 XVH THE SOLACE OF BOOKS "\X7HAT matter though my room be VV small, Though this red lamplight looks On nothing but a papered wall And some few rows of books? For in my hand I hold a key That opens golden doors ; At whose resistless sesame A tide of sunlight pours, In from the basking lawns that lie Beyond the bound'ry wall ; Where summer broods eternally, Where the cicalas call. There all the landscape softer is, There greener tendrils twine, The bowers are roofed with clematis, With briony and vine. There pears and golden apples hang, There falls the honey-dew, And there the birds that morning sang, When all the world was new. 1 Book Lovers' Verse Beneath the oaks Menalcas woos Arachnia's nut-brown eyes ; And still the laughing Faun pursues, And still the wood-nymph flies. And you may hear young Orpheus there Come singing through the wood, Or catch the gleam of golden hair In Dian's solitude. So when the world is all awry, When life is out of chime, I take this key of gold and fly To that serener clime ; To those fair sunlit lawns that lie Beyond the bound 'ry wall, Where summer broods eternally And youth is over all. THE SPECTATOR. Burton's Anatomy BURTON'S ANATOMY A QUAINT old store of learning lies In Burton's pleasant pages, With long quotations that comprise The wisdom of the ages. "Tis strange to read him 'mid the crowd And modern hurly-burly ; The only author Johnson vowed Could make him get up early. He lived a solitary life, He said "Mihi et musis," And pat his rest from worldly strife To very pleasant uses. He wrote the book wherein we find "All joys to this are folly," And naught to the reflective mind "So sweet as melancholy." How strangely he dissects his theme In manner anatomic ; He's earnest at one time, you deem, Now decorously comic. And most prodigiously he quotes, With learning quite gigantic, Or telling classic anecdotes, Is pleasantly pedantic. 3 Book Lovers' Verse There's sterling sense in every page, And shrewdest cogitation ; Your keen attention he'll engage, And honest admiration. If any man should vow to live With but one book, be certain To him could friendly fortune give No better book than Burton. He lies at rest in Christ's Church aisle, With all his erudition ; The hieroglyphics make one smile, That show his superstition. His epitaph survives to-day, As one "Cui vitam dedit Et mortem Melancholia," So he himself has said it. ANDREW LANG. Ballade of Poor Book- Worms BALLADE OF POOR BOOK- WORMS 'THE book-stall on the corner bleak, Its grinning keeper knows us well ; As we pass by we never speak, But often linger for a spell. We ken the kernel by the shell, And oft our slender purse is led Its grudging silver down to tell : Books we must have though we lack bread ! Great stores we pass with glance oblique Our coins their coffers seldom swell ; We wend to second-hand shop meek ; We heed not dust, nor dirt, nor smell, The creaking door a cracked old bell Sets jangling, and the hinge is red With rust, but bargains here they sell : Books we must have though we lack bread ! We haunt book auctions week by week ; Sweet music to our ears is yell Of "Going, going," and the shriek Of "Gone !" since unto us it fell, "Lot 3." One cast us down to hell With Dante, one to heaven sped Our souls his namesake's Damozel : Books we must have though we lack bread ! 5 Book Lovers' Verse ENVOY Love, when our plenishing we'd seek, We bought the bookcase ere the bed ; And this is still the purse's leak : Books we must have though we lack bread ! THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. A GOOD BOOK THAT book is good Which puts me in a working mood. Unless to Thought is added Will, Apollo is an imbecile. What parts, what gems, what colors shine, Ah, but I miss the grand design. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. My Books MY BOOKS C ADLY as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longei wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full hi sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half con- cealed 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 con- fused. HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. Book Lovers' Verse THE OLD BOOKS TTHE old books, the old books, the books * of long ago ! Who ever felt Miss Austen tame, or called Sir Walter slow? We did not care the worst to bare of human sty or den ; We liked to love a little bit and trust our fellow-men. The old books, the old books, as pure as Bummer breeze ! We read them under garden boughs, by fire- light on our knees, They did not teach, they did not preach, or scold us into good ; A noble spirit from them breathed, the rest was understood. happy dusk, when lamps were lit, around a mother's chair, To listen as she read, and breathe the rich, enchanted air ; Of banner bright and stainless knight, of eerie elfin page, With all that glamour of delight, that won- drous Middle Age. 8 The Old Books Then was there no forbidden tree with long- ing vainly eyed ; No hiding books with lock and key to child- ish ears denied ; The library was open field where all might come and go ; The Serpent had not yet revealed his herit- age of woe. The new books, the new books, the great neurotic school ! That never let the Furies sleep, the fervid passions cool. Be real ! they cry, and lust and strife thick crowd the horrid stage ; And every loathsome ill of life is "copy" to their page. The new books, the new books, the other nobler kind ! Straight from the heart they come and speak, and round the heart they wind. Marcella in her lovelier mood, a Stevenson, a Thrums, A Kipling great in camp and wood, a Be- sant in the slums ! Not theirs to hint that all is dark, the sun has fled the day, Not theirs to stamp the autumn leaf more deeply in the clay ! Book Lovers' Verse In every life they find a strain of good as yet untold ; In simple hearts a noble vein of unsuspected gold; They hold the mirror to our times, they paint in motley dyes The image of our wants and crimes; they bid us sympathize. And not in vain : so rich the art, so rare the painter's skill, They wake in every sleeping heart the old knight-errant still. But the old books, the old books, the mother loves them best ; They leave no bitter taste behind to haunt the youthful breast : They bid us hope, they bid us fill our hearts with visions fair ; They do not paralyze the will with problems of despair. And as they lift from sloth and sense to fol- low loftier pains, And stir the blood of indolence to bubble in the veins : Inheritors of mighty things, who own a lin- eage high, We feel within us budding wings that long to reach the sky : 10 The Old Books To rise above the commonplace, and through the cloud to soar, And join the loftier company of grander souls of yore. Then as she reads each magic scene, the firelight burning low, How flush the cheeks ! how quick, how keen, the heart-beats come and go ! The mother's voice is soft and sweet, the mother's look is kind, But ehe has tones that cause to beat all pas- sions of the mind ; And Alice weeps, and Jack inspired rides forth a hero bold ; So master passions, early fired, burn on when life is cold. THE SPECTATOR. 11 Book Lovers' Verse FELLOW-FEELING MOT a man of world-wide haunts ; I've never seen a foreign land ; The wondrous things the guidebook flaunts I only know at second hand. And yet I swear, from east to west, The points where all directions meet, The thoroughfare I love the best, Is Tom De Quincey's Oxford Street. Request me not to name its trend ; Invite me not, I pray, to name Its place of starting or its end On this my information's lame. No friend of mine has ever dwelt Beside its lines ; yet I repeat For years and years and years I've felt An ardent love for Oxford Street. A warmth of love from pity bom, Begotten of the book which told How, heartsick, famishing and worn, De Quincey in the days of old Staggered along in grim despair And battled bravely with defeat Beneath the ruddy, cheery glare Of lamps that burned in Oxford Street. 12 Fellow- Feeling Not for the dreama the poppy gave, Not for the story of the price The truth-recording brilliant slave Paid for the pleasures of his vice Not for the magic of his lines, With wit and charm and grace replete, Is it that my esteem inclines To Tom De Quincey's Oxford Street. Ah, no. My warmest feelings woke Upon that day when first I read Of how, superlatively broke, Drum-empty and without a red, A stranger in a stranger town, Having forgotten how to eat, The scholar wandered up and down Unsympathetic Oxford Street. It roused my sympathy, I say, Because, it chanced, one time I struck, Within a town not far away, Just such a wretched run of luck, When, friendless in the passing throng, Without a kindly word to greet My misery, I drilled along Well, let us call it Oxford Street. I know, I had that in my heart That marked the scholar's deep distress. I know his woe it's every part I know, I do not have to guess. 13 Book Lovers' Verse The words he wrote bind him to me In brotherhood firm and complete, And in my mind together we Have often walked down Oxford Street. And so I let the others laud The "Eater's" witchery and art; I only give a silent nod, But deep, deep down within my heart, Unceasing blessings I invoke And peaceful rest, profound, complete, To him who walked when he was broke Beneath the lamps of Oxford Street. THE CHICAGO KECOED. 14 MY BOOKS '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 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 sheep-skin blistered, And Howell the worse for wear, And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace, And the little old cropped Moliere, 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. 15 Book Lovers' Verse THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOK-WORM 1 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 ia 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. MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 16 A Ballade of Montaigne A BALLADE OF MONTAIGNE I SIT before the firelight's glow, With peace between the world and me, And con good Master Florio With pipe a-light ; and as I see Queen Bess herself with book a-knee Reading it o'er and o'er again, Here, 'neath my cozy mantel-tree, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. Now howls the wind and drives the snow ; The traveler shivers on the lea ; While, with my precious folio, Behold a happy devotee To book and warmth and reverie ! The blast upon the window-pane Disturbs me not, as, trouble-free, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. I am content, and thus I know A mind as calm as summer sea, A heart that stranger is to woe. To happiness I hold the key In this rare, sweet philosophy ; And while the Fates so fair, ordain, Well pleased with Destiny's decree, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. 2 17 Book Lovers' Verse ENVOY Prince ! aye, King be your degree, Thou monarch of immortal reign I Always thy subject I would be, And smoke my pipe and read Montaigne ! ARTHUR MACY. THE BOOK THERE is no frigate like a book To take us leagues away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of toll ; How frugal is the chariot That bears a human soul ! EMILY DICKINSON. 18 Companions COMPANIONS "A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions, men, women and books." SIB JOHN DAVYS. have companions, comrade mine ; Jolly good fellows, tried and true, Are filling their cups with the Ehenish 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 loth 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? 19 Book Lovers' Verse 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 1 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 for ever to all mankind ! When others fail him, the wise man looks To the sure companionship of books. KICHARD HENRY STOI>DARD. 20 The Bibliophile THE BIBLIOPHILE 'THE lover may rave of his ruddy-cheeked lass, The sailor may sing of the sea : And topers may tell of the charms of the glass, But books have more beauty for me. A book is a treasure more precious than gold; An heirloom bequeathed to mankind ; A casket of wisdom in which we behold The kingliest gems of the mind. Though humble my lot, yet dull care I defy, With books for my gentle allies ; And folly and vice from my presence will fly When I think of the good and the wise. My books shall supply me with balm for each blow, When fortune my best effort spurns ; With Swift I will laugh at the high and the low, And mourn o'er a "mousie" with Bums. 21 Book Lovers' Verse While sitting at ease by my own fireside, A famous old book on my knee, A lover alone with his beautiful bride Would win little envy from me. My heart feels at peace as through Book- world I roam, The fair realms of fancy are mine, And Love's holy spirit now rests on my home My Book is the Volume Divine. ALFRED C. BRANT. 22 My Books MY BOOKS /"\N 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, Eanged 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, 'tis 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, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. 23 Book Lovers' Verse 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 ! WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. 24 Give Me the Old GIVE ME THE OLD /^\LD books to read! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, Time-honored tomes ! The same my sire scanned before, The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, The same his sire from college bore, The well-earned meed Of Oxford's domes ; Old Homer blind, Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! And Gervase Markham's venerie, Nor leave behind The Holye Book by which we live and die. ROBERT HINCHLEY MESSENGER. 25 Book Lovers ' Verse A VOLUME OF DANTE I LIE unread, alone. None heedeth me. Day after day the cobwebs are unswept From my dim covers. I have lain and slept In dust and darkness for a century. An old forgotten volume I. You see ! Such mighty words within my heart are kept That, reading once, great Ariosto wept In vain despair so impotent to be. And once, with pensive eyes and drooping head, Musing, Vittoria Colonna came, And touched my leaves with dreamy finger-tips, Lifted me up half absently, and read ; Then kissed the page with sudden, ten- der lips, And sighed, and murmured one beloved name. CAROLINE WILDER FELLOWS. 26 Marcus Varro MARCUS VARRO 1U ARCUS VARRO went up and down The places where old books were sold ; He ransacked all the shops in town For pictures new and pictures old. He gave the folk of earth no peace ; Snooping around by day and night, He plied the trade in Rome and Greece Of an insatiate Grangerite. "Pictures!" was evermore his cry "Pictures of old or recent date," And pictures only would he buy Wherewith to "extra-illustrate." Full many a tome of ancient type And many a manuscript he took For nary purpose but to swipe Their pictures for some other book. While Marcus Varro plied his fad There was not in the shops of Greece A book or pamphlet to be had That was not minus frontispiece. Nor did he hesitate to ply His baleful practices at home ; It was not possible to buy A perfect book in all of Rome ! 27 Book Lovers' Verse What must the other folk have done Who, glancing o'er the books they bought, Came soon and suddenly upon The vandalism Varro wrought ! How must their cheeks have flamed with red How did their hearts with choler beat ! We can imagine what they said We can imagine, not repeat ! Where are the books that Varro made The pride of dilettante Eome With divers portraitures inlaid Swiped from so many another tome? The worms devoured them long ago O wretched worms ! ye should have fed Not on the books "extended" so But on old Varro's flesh, instead ! Alas, that Marcus Varro lives And is a potent factor yet ! Alas, that still his practice gives Good men occasion for regret ! To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go, And by the "missing" prints and plates And frontispieces you shall know He lives, and "extra-illustrates!" EUGENE FIELD. "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." Charles Scribner's Sons. 28 At a Bookstore AT A BOOKSTORE [Anno Domini, 1972.] A CRAZY bookcase, placed before A low-price dealer's open door; Therein arrayed in broken rows A ragged crew of rhyme and prose, The homeless vagrants, waifs, and strays Whose low estate this line betrays (Set forth the lesser birds to lime) YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS ONE DIME! Ho! dealer; for its motto's sake This scarecrow from the shelf I take ; Three starveling volumes bound in one, Its covers warping in the sun. Methinks it hath a musty smell, I like its flavor none too well, But Yorick's brain was far from dull, Though Hamlet pah ! 'd, and dropped his skull. "Why, here comes rain! The sky dark, Was that the roll of thunder? Hark ! The shop affords a safe retreat, A chair extends its welcome seat, 29 Book Lovers' Verse The tradesman has a civil look (I've paid, impromptu, for my book), The clouds portend a sudden shower, I'll read my purchase for an hour. What have I rescued from the shelf? A Boswell, writing out himself! For though he changes dress and name, The man beneath is still the same, Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, One actor in a dozen parts, And whatsoe'er the mask may be, The voice assures us, This is he. I say not this to cry him down ; I find my Shakespeare in his clown, His rogues the selfsame parent own ; Nay ! Satan talks in Milton's tone ! Where'er the ocean inlet strays, The salt sea wave its source betrays ; Where'er the queen of summer blows, She tells the zephyr, "I'm the rose!" And his is not the playwright's page ; His table does not ape the stage ; What matter if the figures seen Are only shadows on a screen, He finds in them his lurking thought, And on their lips the words he sought, Like one who sits before the keys And plays a tune himself to please. 30 At a Bookstore And was he noted in his day? Read, flattered, honored? Who shall say? Poor wreck of time the wave has cast To find a peaceful shore at last, Once glorying in thy gilded name And freighted deep with hopes of fame, Thy leaf is moistened with a tear, The first for many a long, long year ! For be it more or less of art That veils the lowliest human heart Where passion throbs, where friendship glows, Where pity's tender tribute flows, Where love has lit its fragrant fire, And sorrow quenched its vain desire, For me the altar is divine, Its flame, its ashes, all are mine ! And thou, my brother, as I look And see thee pictured in thy book, Thy years on every page confessed In shadows lengthening from the west, Thy glance that wanders, as it sought Some freshly opening flower of thought, Thy hopeful nature, light and free, I start to find myself in thee ! Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn In leather jerkin stained and torn, 31 Book Lovers' Verse Whose talk has filled my idle hour And made me half forget the shower, I'll do at least as much for you, Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew, Read you perhaps some other time. Not bad, my bargain ! Price one dime ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. A Book-Lover's Apologia A BOOK-LOVER'S APOLOGIA TEMPTATION lurks in every leaf Of printed page or cover, Whene'er I haunt the bookshops old, Their treasures rare discover ; Or when, in choicest catalogues, Among which I'm a rover, My heart leaps up their names to see For am I not their lover? I linger o'er each dainty page, With loving touch and tender, But find their sweet, seductive charms Soon call me to surrender. Brave fight, 'twixt heart and my lean purse, My loved books' strong defender! More precious for the valiant strife That love is called to render. But when in Bibliopolis Their dear forms 'round me cluster, While rank on rank and file on file, In gathering numbers muster, Think you, I mind the sordid tongues That soulless talk and bluster, Or weigh, against their priceless worth, The golden dollar's luster? 3 33 Book Lovers' Verse Ah, no ! since there are drink and food For which the soul has longings, And in its daily, upward strife, Finds both in such belongings ; Dear books! Loved friends, full meet ye are To greet the earliest dawnings Of all the happiest days in life, Of all its brightest mornings ! HARRIETTS C. S. BUCKHAM. 34 The Land of Story Books THE LAND OF STORY BOOKS A T evening, when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now with my little gun I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow 'round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are the starry solitudes ; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away As if in fire-lit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. 36 Book Lovers' Verse So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of story-books. ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. "A Child's Garden of Verses." Charles Scribner's Sons. The Bookworm THE BOOKWORM \A/E flung the close-kept casement wide ; The myriad atom-play Streamed, "with the mid-day's glancing tide, Across him as he lay ; Only the unused summer gust Moved the thin hair of Dryasdust The notes he writ were barely dry ; The entering breeze's breath Fluttered the fruitless casuistry, Checked at the leaf where Death The final commentator thrust His cold "Here endeth Dryasdust." O fool and blind ! The leaf that grew, The opening bud, the trees, The face of men, he nowise knew, Or careless turned from these To delve, in folios' rust and must, The tomb he lived in, dry as dust. He left, for mute Salmasius, The lore a child may teach, For saws of dead Libanius, The sound of uttered speech ; No voice had pierced the sheep-skin cruet That bound the heart of Dryasdust. 37 Book Lovers' Verse And BO, with none to close his eyes, And none to mourn him dead, He in his dumb book-Babel lies With gray dust garmented. Let be : pass on. It is but just These were thy gods, O Dryasdust ! Dig we his grave where no birds greet,- He loved no song of birds ; Lay we his bones where no men meet,- He loved no spoken words ; He let his human-nature rust Write his Hie Jacet in the Dust. AUSTIN DOBSON. 38 From " Idylls and Epigrams FROM "IDYLLS AND EPIGRAMS" (")UR master, Meteager, he who framed The first Anthology and daintiest, Mated each minstrel with a flower, and named For each the blossom that beseemed him best. 'Twas then as now ; garlands were somewhat rare, Candidates many : one in a doleful strain Lamented thus : "This is a sad affair; How shall I face my publisher again? Lacking some emblem suitable for me, My book's undone; I shall not sell a copy." "Take courage, son," quoth Phoebus, "there must be Somewhere or other certainly a poppy." RICHARD GARNETT. 39 Book Lovers' Verse BOCCACCIO 4 4 O^ ^ av u P on a to P mos t shelf ^^ I found a precious prize, indeed, Which father used to read, himself, But did not want us boys to read ; A brown old book of certain age (As type and binding seemed to show), While on the spotted title-page Appeared the name 'Boccaccio.' "I'd never heard that name before, But in due season it became To him who fondly brooded o'er Those pages a beloved name ! Adown the centuries I walked Mid pastoral scenes and royal show ; With seigneurs and their dames I talked The crony of Boccaccio. "Those courtly knights and sprightly maids, Who really seemed disposed to shine In gallantries and escapades, Anon became great friends of mine. Yet was there sentiment with fun, And oftentimes my tears would flow At some quaint tale of valor done, As told by my Boccaccio. 40 Boccaccio "In boyish dreams I saw again Bucolic belles and dames of court. The princely youths and monkish men Arrayed for sacrifice or sport ; Again I heard the nightingale Sing as she sung those years ago In his embowered Italian vale To my revered Boccaccio. "And still I love that brown old book I found upon the topmost shelf I love it so I let none look Upon the treasure but myself ! And yet I have a strapping boy Who (I have every cause to know) "Would to its full extent enjoy The friendship of Boccaccio ! "But boys are, oh! so different now From what they were when I was one ! I fear my boy would not know how To take that old raconteur's fun ! In your companionship, O friend, I think it wise alone to go Plucking the gracious fruits that bend Where e'er you lead, Boccaccio. "So rest you there upon the shelf, Clad in your garb of faded brown ; Perhaps, some time, my boy himself Shall find you out and take you down. 41 Book Lover-s' Verse Then may he feel the joy once more That thrilled me, filled me years ago When reverently I brooded o'er The glories of Boccaccio!" EUGENE FIELD. "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." Charles Scribner's SODS. A NEGLECTED POET IN A LIBRARY I WANDER on, I hunt through every stall I find it not on low or high shelf, The book I prize the most of all ; "Which one?" Why, the one I wrote my- self. "It may be out." Ah, happy thought! There was a copy, I remind ine, Somehow missed none was ever bought But one's enough for fame to find me. ADAM QUINCE. 42 Annetta Jones Her Book ANNETTA JONES HER BOOK A RARE old print of Shakespeare his works, in boards of brown, With quaint engravings ; here and there the yellowed leaves turned down Where sweet, love-breathing Juliet speaks, and as I lean and look, Traced in pale, faded ink, these words: "Annetta Jones : Her Book." Now, this old print of Shakespeare I prize, because 'tis rare The gem of all my library, in dust and glory there ; I marvel much at Hamlet's ghost, and Ban- quo's pictured bones, But who ye gods of ancient days, was this "Annetta Jones" ? I think I've heard that name before, Jones? Jones? but that "Annetta," With odd embroidery around the first and final letter, Is sweet and quaint . . . She was no saint, prim grim ! for I discover By these sublime, marked sentences, An- netta had a lover ! 43 Book Lovers' Verse And I believe her eyes were blue her lips as cherries red, And many a shy, sweet kiss they knew, and tender words they said ; And from her powdered brows gold hair fell cloud-likesoft and sweet, Down-streaming, gleaming, dreaming in her silver-slippered feet ! She lived she loved was wedded ; the ro- mance of her life Perchance was toned a trifle when her lover called her "wife;" But what a glorious fate is hers ! for as I lean and look Her name still shines with Shakespeare's : "Annetta Jones : Her Book." FRANK L. STANTON. 44 A Legend of the Strand A LEGEND OF THE STRAND 'TIS said an author who had starved to 1 death Went walking, some years after he had lost his breath, In spirit up Fleet Street, then down the Strand, And found himself before a bookman's stand. "What's this?" he mused, as in his hand A book He took "Dear me, my verse!" he cried, and kissed the tome. "You killed me cost me hearth and home To publish you I spent My every cent. No man would buy. And I Was soon a shadow of my former self. Whilst you lay snugly on my dusty shelf. Heigho!" he sighed, "Thou wert my pride, And ruin." Quoth the book : "Not so! You died too soon to really know. I have become A rarity, and worth a wondrous sum. 45 Book Lovers' Verse And through me now You wear the laurel on your brow!" E'en as the volume spake A mortal came, the little book did take, And as the spirit watched him from the shade, Some twenty pounds for it he paid. "Egad!" the author cried, as back he sped To Hades. "I have on my head Enough of hay entwined to feed a horse ! I'm proud of it oh yes, I am, of course But what a shame to decorate An author's pate And leave his stomach to disintegrate!" JOHN KENDRICK BANGS. 46 In the Library IN THE LIBRARY "THE room was given to firegleams and to night, And as I mused, lo ! where the books had been Were souls of books, alive, and on my sight Dawned growing day, in midst whereof was seen, With sad stern face, eyes pitying, vesture white, The Lord of Souls, who, dying, won Life's fight. Then all the book-souls bowed before the bright Surrounding glory of the Lord of Light. Then, one by one, He touched them on the side, And some to scented ashes sank and died ; Some gave the semblance of a human heart, Some like a working hand of help did show, Some changed to lamps tipped with a stead- fast glow, One only of its Lord was counterpart. H. V. S. HEKBERT. 47 Book Lovers' Verse TO CALIPH OMAR , who burned (if thou didst burn) The Alexandrian tomes, I would erect to thee an urn Beneath Sophia's domes. Would that thy exemplary torch Might bravely blaze again, And many manufactories scorch Of book-inditing men ! Especially I'd have thee choke Law libraries in sheep, With fire derived from ancient Coke, And sink in ashes deep. Destroy the sheep don't save my own I weary to the cram, The misplaced diligence I've shown But kindly spare my Lamb. And spare, oh, spare this suppliant book Against a time of need ; Hide it away in humble nook To serve for legal seed. The man who writes but hundred pages Where thousands went before, Deserves the thanks of weary sages, And Omar should adore. IRVING BROWNE. 48 These Books of Mine THESE BOOKS OF MINE JWl Y garden aboundeth in pleasant nooka And fragrance is over it all ; For sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall. Here is a folio that's grim with age And yellow and green with mold ; There's the breath of the sea on every page And the hint of a stanch ship's hold. And here is a treasure from France la belle Exhaleth a faint perfume Of wedded lily and asphodel In a garden of song abloom. And this wee little book of Puritan mien And rude, conspicuous print Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen, Or, may be, of peppermint. In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell Where the cheery daisy grows, And where in meadow or woodland dwell The buttercup and the rose. But best beloved of books, I ween, Are those which one perceives Are hallowed by ashes dropped between The yellow, well-thumbed leaves. 4 49 Book Lovers' Verse For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear, Till the treasured book is read ; And the ashes betwixt the pages here Tell us of one long dead. But the gracious presence reappears As we read the book again, And the fragrance of precious, distant years Filleth the hearts of men. Come, pluck with me in my garden nooka The posies that bloom for all ; Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall ! EUGENE FIELD. "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." Charles Soribner's Sons. 50 The Truth About Horace THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE IT is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude ; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued. There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts ; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy ; Now we adjudge 'em crazy ! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive ! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him Go, read the virile poem It is No. 25. 51 Book Lovers' Verse He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date ; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty He painted up the city, And Maecenas paid the freight. EUGENE FIELD. "A Little Book of Western Verse." Charles Scribner's Sous. THE BOOK-WORMS HTHROUGH and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings ; But, oh, respect his lordship's taste, And spare the golden bindings ! ROBERT BURNS. 52 The Student THE STUDENT A YOUTH was there, of quiet ways, A student of old books and days, To whom all tongues and lands were known And yet a lover of his own ; With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude ; A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Eome. He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance ; Where glitter hauberk, helm and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song. 53 Book Lovers' Verse The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort