VERSES IN A LIBRARY.

Give me that book whose power is such That I forget the north wind's touch.

Give me that book that brings to me Forgetfulness of what I be.

Give me that book that takes my life In seeming far from all its strife.

Give me that book wherein each page Destroys my sense of creeping age.

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

A BOOK BY THE BROOK.

Give me a nook and a book, And let the proud world spin round; Let it scramble by hook or by crook For wealth or a name with a sound.

You are welcome to amble your ways, Aspirers to place or to glory; May big bells jangle your praise, And golden pens blazon your story; For me, let me dwell in my nook, Here by the curve of this brook, That croons to the tune of my book: Whose melody wafts me forever On the waves of an unseen river.

WILLIAM FREELAND.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Oh for a booke and a shady nooke Eyther in door 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 olde, For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde!

TO DANIEL ELZEVIR.

(_From the Latin of Menage._)

What do I see! Oh! G.o.ds divine And G.o.ddesses--this Book of mine-- This child of many hopes and fears, Is published by the Elzevirs!

Oh Perfect publishers complete!

Oh dainty volume, new and neat!

The Paper doth outshine the snow, The Print is blacker than the crow, The t.i.tle-page, with crimson bright, The vellum cover smooth and white, All sorts of readers to invite; Ay, and will keep them reading still, Against their will, or with their will!

Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack The Publisher has given them back, As Milliners adorn the fair Whose charms are something skimp and spare.

Oh dulce decus, Elzevirs!

The pride of dead and dawning years, How can a poet best repay The debt he owes your House to-day?

May this round world, while aught endures, Applaud, and buy, these books of yours.

May purchasers incessant pop, My Elzevirs, within your shop, And learned bards salute, with cheers, The volumes of the Elzevirs, Till your renown fills earth and sky, Till men forget the Stephani, And all that Aldus wrought, and all Turnebus sold in shop or stall, While still may Fate's (and Binders') shears Respect, and spare, the Elzevirs!

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us n.o.bler loves and n.o.bler cares!

The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.

WORDSWORTH.

COMPANIONS.

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!

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.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

THE PARADOX OF BOOKS.

I'm strange contradictions; I'm new and I'm old, I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold.

Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found; Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound.

I'm always in black, and I'm always in white; I am grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light.

In form too I differ,--I'm thick and I'm thin; I've no flesh and no bone, yet I'm covered with skin; I've more points than the compa.s.s, more stops than the flute; I sing without voice, without speaking confute; I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch; Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much; I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages, And no monarch alive has so many pages.

HANNAH MORE.

I love my books as drinkers love their wine; The more I drink, the more they seem divine; With joy elate my soul in love runs o'er, And each fresh draught is sweeter than before: Books bring me friends where'er on earth I be,-- Solace of solitude, bonds of society.

I love my books! they are companions dear, Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere; Here talk I with the wise in ages gone, And with the n.o.bly gifted in our own: If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind, Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find.

FRANCIS BENNOCH.

MY LIBRARY.

All round the room my silent servants wait,-- My friends in every season, bright and dim Angels and seraphim Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low, And spirits of the skies all come and go Early and late; From the old world's divine and distant date, From the sublimer few, Down to the poet who but yester-eve Sang sweet and made us grieve, All come, a.s.sembling here in order due.

And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate, With Erato and all her vernal sighs, Great Clio with her victories elate, Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes.

Oh friends, whom chance or change can never harm, Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die, Within whose folding soft eternal charm I love to lie, And meditate upon your verse that flows, And fertilizes wheresoe'er it goes.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.

RATIONAL MADNESS.

_A Song, for the Lover of Curious and Rare Books._

Come, boys, fill your gla.s.ses, and fill to the brim, Here's the essence of humor, the soul, too, of whim!

Attend and receive (and sure 'tis no vapour) A "hap' worth of wit on a pennyworth of paper."

Those joys which the Bibliomania affords Are felt and acknowledged by Dukes and by Lords!

And the finest estate would be offer'd in vain For an exemplar bound by the famed Roger Payne!

To a proverb goes madness with love hand in hand, But our senses we yield to a double command; The dear frenzy in both is first rous'd by fair looks,-- Here's our sweethearts, my boys! not forgetting our books!

Thus our time may we pa.s.s with rare books and rare friends, Growing wiser and better, till life itself ends: And may those who delight not in black-letter lore, By some obsolete act be sent from our sh.o.r.e!