The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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107
V BOOKS
109
To the Gentle Reader
‘A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions—men, women, and books.’—Sir John Davys.
Three kinds of companions—men, women, and books,
Were enough, said the elderly sage, for his ends.
And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,
And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:
‘Man delights me not’, often, ‘nor woman’, but books
Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.
Were enough, said the elderly sage, for his ends.
And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,
And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:
‘Man delights me not’, often, ‘nor woman’, but books
Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.
For man will be wrangling—for woman will fret
About anything infinitesimal small:
Like the sage in our Plato, I'm ‘anxious to get
On the side’—on the sunnier side—‘of a wall’.
Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,
If only you'll leave me at peace with my books!
About anything infinitesimal small:
Like the sage in our Plato, I'm ‘anxious to get
On the side’—on the sunnier side—‘of a wall’.
Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,
If only you'll leave me at peace with my books!
And which are my books? why, ’tis much as you please,
For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,
And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,
Though for choice I might call for a sermon or song;
And Locker on London, and Sala on cooks,
‘Tom Brown’, and Plotinus, they're all of them books.
For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,
And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,
Though for choice I might call for a sermon or song;
And Locker on London, and Sala on cooks,
‘Tom Brown’, and Plotinus, they're all of them books.
110
There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth;
There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;
Or good Maître Francoys to bring one to earth,
If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:
There's Müller on speech, there is Gurney on spooks,
There is Tylor on totems, there's all sorts of books.
There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;
Or good Maître Francoys to bring one to earth,
If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:
There's Müller on speech, there is Gurney on spooks,
There is Tylor on totems, there's all sorts of books.
There's roaming in regions where every one's been,
Encounters where no one was ever before,
There's ‘Leaves’ from the Highlands we owe to the Queen,
There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kôr:
There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,
You can cover a great deal of country in books.
Encounters where no one was ever before,
There's ‘Leaves’ from the Highlands we owe to the Queen,
There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kôr:
There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,
You can cover a great deal of country in books.
There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads,
There is Geusius’ dearly delectable tome
Of the Cannibal—he on his neighbour who feeds—
And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome;
There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on flukes),
There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' books.
There is Geusius’ dearly delectable tome
Of the Cannibal—he on his neighbour who feeds—
And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome;
There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on flukes),
There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' books.
111
There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions,
There's many a quarto uncommonly rare;
There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions,
There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;
There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the ‘crooks
In the lots’ of us mortals, who bargain for books.
There's many a quarto uncommonly rare;
There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions,
There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;
There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the ‘crooks
In the lots’ of us mortals, who bargain for books.
There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming ‘What next?’
There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,
And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,
And good Marcus Tvainus to lend you a laugh;
There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,
And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books.
There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,
And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,
And good Marcus Tvainus to lend you a laugh;
There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,
And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books.
112
Ballade of the Book-hunter
In torrid heats of late July,
In March, beneath the bitter lise,
He book-hunts while the loungers fly—
He book-hunts, though December freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees—
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
In March, beneath the bitter lise,
He book-hunts while the loungers fly—
He book-hunts, though December freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees—
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes his eye,
He turns o'er tomes of low degrees;
There soiled romanticists may lie,
Or Restoration comedies.
Each tract that flutters in the breeze
For him is charged with hopes and fears;
In mouldy novels fancy sees
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
He turns o'er tomes of low degrees;
There soiled romanticists may lie,
Or Restoration comedies.
Each tract that flutters in the breeze
For him is charged with hopes and fears;
In mouldy novels fancy sees
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
113
With restless eyes that peer and spy,
Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,
In dismal nooks he loves to pry,
Whose motto evermore is—spes!
But ah! the fabled treasure flees;
Grown rarer with the fleeting years,
In rich men's shelves they take their ease—
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,
In dismal nooks he loves to pry,
Whose motto evermore is—spes!
But ah! the fabled treasure flees;
Grown rarer with the fleeting years,
In rich men's shelves they take their ease—
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
Envoy
Prince, all the things that tease and please—Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears—
What are they but such toys as these—
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?
114
Ballade of the Bookman's Paradise
There is a Heaven, or here, or there
A Heaven there is, for me and you,
Where bargains meet for purses spare
Like ours, are not so far and few.
Thuanus' bees go humming through
The learnèd groves, 'neath rainless skies,
O'er volumes old and volumes new,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
A Heaven there is, for me and you,
Where bargains meet for purses spare
Like ours, are not so far and few.
Thuanus' bees go humming through
The learnèd groves, 'neath rainless skies,
O'er volumes old and volumes new,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
There, treasures bound for Longepierre
Keep brilliant their morocco blue,
There Hooke's Amanda is not rare,
Nor early tracts upon Peru!
Racine is common as Rotrou,
No Shakespeare quarto search defies,
And Caxtons grow as blossoms grow,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
Keep brilliant their morocco blue,
There Hooke's Amanda is not rare,
Nor early tracts upon Peru!
Racine is common as Rotrou,
No Shakespeare quarto search defies,
And Caxtons grow as blossoms grow,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
115
There's Eve—not our first mother fair—
But Clovis Eve, a binder true;
Thither does Bauzonnet repair,
Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!
But never come the cropping crew
That dock a volume's honest size,
Nor they that ‘letter’ backs askew,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
But Clovis Eve, a binder true;
Thither does Bauzonnet repair,
Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!
But never come the cropping crew
That dock a volume's honest size,
Nor they that ‘letter’ backs askew,
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
Envoy
Friend, do not Heber and de Thou,And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,
La chasse au bouquin still pursue
Within that Bookman's Paradise.
116
To F. L.-L.
[Frederick Locker-Lampson.]
I mind that Forest Shepherd's saw,
For, when men preached of Heaven, quoth he—
‘It's a' that's bricht, and a' that's braw,
But Bourhope's guid eneuch for me!’
For, when men preached of Heaven, quoth he—
‘It's a' that's bricht, and a' that's braw,
But Bourhope's guid eneuch for me!’
Beneath the green deep-bosomed hills
That guard Saint Mary's Loch it lies;
The silence of the pastures fills
That shepherd's homely paradise.
That guard Saint Mary's Loch it lies;
The silence of the pastures fills
That shepherd's homely paradise.
Enough for him his mountain lake,
His glen the burn went singing through;
And Rowfant, when the thrushes wake,
May well seem good enough for you.
His glen the burn went singing through;
And Rowfant, when the thrushes wake,
May well seem good enough for you.
For all is old, and tried, and dear,
And all is fair; and round about
The brook that murmurs from the mere
Is dimpled with the rising trout.
And all is fair; and round about
The brook that murmurs from the mere
Is dimpled with the rising trout.
But when the skies of shorter days
Are dark and all the ways are mire,
How bright upon your books the blaze
Gleams from the cheerful study fire.
Are dark and all the ways are mire,
How bright upon your books the blaze
Gleams from the cheerful study fire.
117
On quartos where our fathers read,
Enthralled, the book of Shakespeare's play;
On all that Poe could dream of dread,
And all that Herrick sang of gay!
Enthralled, the book of Shakespeare's play;
On all that Poe could dream of dread,
And all that Herrick sang of gay!
Fair first editions, duly prized,
Above them all, methinks, I rate
The tome where Walton's hand revised
His wonderful receipts for bait!
Above them all, methinks, I rate
The tome where Walton's hand revised
His wonderful receipts for bait!
Happy, who rich in toys like these
Forgets a weary nation's ills;
Who from his study window sees
The circle of the Sussex hills!
Forgets a weary nation's ills;
Who from his study window sees
The circle of the Sussex hills!
118
The Rowfant Books
The Rowfant books, how fair they show,
The quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,
Print, autograph, portfolio!
Back from the outer air they call
The athletes from the tennis ball,
This rhymer from his rod and hooks;
Would I could sing them one and all,
The Rowfant books!
The quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,
Print, autograph, portfolio!
Back from the outer air they call
The athletes from the tennis ball,
This rhymer from his rod and hooks;
Would I could sing them one and all,
The Rowfant books!
The Rowfant books! In sun and snow
They're dear, but most when tempests fall;
The folio towers above the row
As once, o'er minor prophets—Saul!
What jolly jest books and what small
‘Dear dumpy twelves’ to fill the nooks.
You do not find on every stall
The Rowfant books!
They're dear, but most when tempests fall;
The folio towers above the row
As once, o'er minor prophets—Saul!
What jolly jest books and what small
‘Dear dumpy twelves’ to fill the nooks.
You do not find on every stall
The Rowfant books!
119
The Rowfant books! These long ago
Were chained within some college hall;
These manuscripts retain the glow
Of many a coloured capital;
While yet the Satires keep their gall,
While the Pastissier puzzles cooks,
Theirs is a joy that does not pall,
The Rowfant books!
Were chained within some college hall;
These manuscripts retain the glow
Of many a coloured capital;
While yet the Satires keep their gall,
While the Pastissier puzzles cooks,
Theirs is a joy that does not pall,
The Rowfant books!
Envoy
The Rowfant books—ah magicalAs famed Armida's ‘golden looks’,
They hold the rhymer for their thrall—
The Rowfant books.
120
Verses inscribed in the Supplement to the Rowfant Catalogue
1902
How often to the worthy sire
Succeeds the unworthy son!
Extinguished is the ancient fire,
Books were the idol of the squire,
The graceless heir has none.
Succeeds the unworthy son!
Extinguished is the ancient fire,
Books were the idol of the squire,
The graceless heir has none.
To Sotheby's go old and new,
Bindings and prose and rhymes,
With Shakespeare as with Padeloup
The sporting lord has naught to do—
He reads the Sporting Times.
Bindings and prose and rhymes,
With Shakespeare as with Padeloup
The sporting lord has naught to do—
He reads the Sporting Times.
Behold a special act of grace;
On Rowfants' shelves behold
The well-loved volumes keep their place
And new-born glories half efface
The splendours of the old.
On Rowfants' shelves behold
The well-loved volumes keep their place
And new-born glories half efface
The splendours of the old.
121
Doris's Books
Doris, on your shelves I note
Many a grave ancestral tome.
These, perhaps, you have by rote;
These are constantly at home.
Ah, but many a gap I spy
Where Miss Broughton's novels lie!
Many a grave ancestral tome.
These, perhaps, you have by rote;
These are constantly at home.
Ah, but many a gap I spy
Where Miss Broughton's novels lie!
Doris, there, behind the glass,
On your Sheratonian shelves—
Oft I see them as I pass—
Stubbs and Freeman sun themselves.
All unread I watch them stand;
That's Belinda in your hand!
On your Sheratonian shelves—
Oft I see them as I pass—
Stubbs and Freeman sun themselves.
All unread I watch them stand;
That's Belinda in your hand!
Doris, I, as you may know,
Am myself a Man of Letters,
But my learnèd volumes go
To the top shelf, like my betters,
High—so high that Doris could
Scarce get at them if she would!
Am myself a Man of Letters,
But my learnèd volumes go
To the top shelf, like my betters,
High—so high that Doris could
Scarce get at them if she would!
122
Doris, there be books of mine
That I gave you, wrote your name in,
Tooled and gilded, fair and fine:
Don't you ever peep the same in?
Yes, I see you've kept them—but,
Doris, they are ‘Quite Uncut!’
That I gave you, wrote your name in,
Tooled and gilded, fair and fine:
Don't you ever peep the same in?
Yes, I see you've kept them—but,
Doris, they are ‘Quite Uncut!’
Quite uncut, ‘unopened’ rather
Are mine edifying pages;
From this circumstance I gather
That some other Muse engages,
Doris, your misguided fancy:
Yes, I thought so—reading Nancy.
Are mine edifying pages;
From this circumstance I gather
That some other Muse engages,
Doris, your misguided fancy:
Yes, I thought so—reading Nancy.
Well, when you are older, Doris,
Wiser, too, you'll love my verses;
Celia likes them, and, what more is,
Oft—to me—their praise rehearses.
‘Celia's Thirty’, did I hear?
Doris, too, can be severe!
Wiser, too, you'll love my verses;
Celia likes them, and, what more is,
Oft—to me—their praise rehearses.
‘Celia's Thirty’, did I hear?
Doris, too, can be severe!
123
Ode on the Distant Prospect of a New Novel
On August 28
The advertisements state,
If your wiring from Moscow or Delhi,
You will not be too late
For a chance of the great
New book by Miss Marie Corelli.
The advertisements state,
If your wiring from Moscow or Delhi,
You will not be too late
For a chance of the great
New book by Miss Marie Corelli.
On August 28
It will come like a spate,
(Not so came the poems of Shelley,)
And we anticipate
That our joy will be great
In the work of Miss Marie Corelli.
It will come like a spate,
(Not so came the poems of Shelley,)
And we anticipate
That our joy will be great
In the work of Miss Marie Corelli.
At the stations the boys
With exuberant noise
To purchase the book will compel ye;
While tyrants will pale
At the sight of the tale
That is launched for Miss Marie Corelli.
With exuberant noise
To purchase the book will compel ye;
While tyrants will pale
At the sight of the tale
That is launched for Miss Marie Corelli.
124
For her ‘Temporal Power’
Cometh up like a flower,
Rose-red with the hues of Crivelli;
And I'd not be a king
If she's having a fling
At the sceptre—Miss Marie Corelli.
Cometh up like a flower,
Rose-red with the hues of Crivelli;
And I'd not be a king
If she's having a fling
At the sceptre—Miss Marie Corelli.
Perhaps she'll let down
The sceptre and crown
And not beat the throne to a jelly,
And each excellent king
May have reason to sing
To the praise of Miss Marie Corelli.
The sceptre and crown
And not beat the throne to a jelly,
And each excellent king
May have reason to sing
To the praise of Miss Marie Corelli.
Were I Kaiser or Tsar
I'd give Garter and Star—
And my robes for the rags of Cleg Kelly,
If Republican rage
Is inspiring the page
Of the dauntless Miss Marie Corelli!
I'd give Garter and Star—
And my robes for the rags of Cleg Kelly,
If Republican rage
Is inspiring the page
Of the dauntless Miss Marie Corelli!
125
A Mes Livres
My books, my heart's delight bewareOf quitting the domestic shelves!
I say when folk would bid me lend,
‘My books are wives to me, my friend;
You may admire them, if you care;
But no, they never lend themselves!’
From Colletet
Such is the fate of borrowed books: they're lost,Or not the book returneth, but its ghost!
126
Ballade of Railway Novels
Let others praise analysis
And revel in a ‘cultured’ style,
And follow the subjective miss
From Boston to the banks of Nile,
Rejoice in anti-British bile,
And weep for fickle hero's woe;
These twain have shortened many a mile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
And revel in a ‘cultured’ style,
And follow the subjective miss
From Boston to the banks of Nile,
Rejoice in anti-British bile,
And weep for fickle hero's woe;
These twain have shortened many a mile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
These damsels of ‘Democracy's’,
How long they stop at every stile!
They smile, and we are told, I wis,
Ten subtle reasons why they smile.
Give me your villains deeply vile,
Give me Lecoq, Jottrat and Co.,
Great artists of the ruse and wile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
How long they stop at every stile!
They smile, and we are told, I wis,
Ten subtle reasons why they smile.
Give me your villains deeply vile,
Give me Lecoq, Jottrat and Co.,
Great artists of the ruse and wile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
127
O novel readers, tell me this,
Can prose that's polished by the file,
Like great Boisgobey's mysteries,
Wet days and weary ways beguile,
And man to living reconcile,
Like these whose every trick we know?
The agony how high they pile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
Can prose that's polished by the file,
Like great Boisgobey's mysteries,
Wet days and weary ways beguile,
And man to living reconcile,
Like these whose every trick we know?
The agony how high they pile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
Envoy
Ah, friend, how many and many a whileThey've made the slow time fleetly flow,
And solaced pain and charmed exile,
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.
These lines do not apply to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and her delightful sisters, Gades aditura mecum, in the pocket edition of Mr. James's novels, if ever I go to Gades
128
The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting.
Oh blessèd be the cart that takes
Away my books—! my curse, my clog;
Blessèd the auctioneer who makes
Their inefficient catalogue.
Away my books—! my curse, my clog;
Blessèd the auctioneer who makes
Their inefficient catalogue.
Blessèd the purchasers who pay
However little—less were fit;
Blessèd the rooms, the rainy day,
The knock-out and the end of it.
However little—less were fit;
Blessèd the rooms, the rainy day,
The knock-out and the end of it.
For I am weary of the sport,
That seemed a while agone so sweet,
Of Elzevirs an inch too short,
And first editions—incomplete.
That seemed a while agone so sweet,
Of Elzevirs an inch too short,
And first editions—incomplete.
Weary of crests and coats of arms
‘Attributed to Padeloup’,
The sham Deromes have lost their charms,
The things Le Gascon did not do.
‘Attributed to Padeloup’,
The sham Deromes have lost their charms,
The things Le Gascon did not do.
129
I never read the catalogues
Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,
But most I loathe the dreary dogs
That write in prose, or worse, on books.
Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,
But most I loathe the dreary dogs
That write in prose, or worse, on books.
Large paper surely cannot hide
Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,
The anecdotes that they provide
Are older than the dawn of time.
Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,
The anecdotes that they provide
Are older than the dawn of time.
Ye bores, of every shape and size,
Who make a tedium of delight,
Good-bye, the last of my good-byes.
Good-night to all your clan, good-night.
Who make a tedium of delight,
Good-bye, the last of my good-byes.
Good-night to all your clan, good-night.
Thus in a sullen fit we swore,
But on mature reflection,
Went on collecting more and more—
And kept our old collection!
But on mature reflection,
Went on collecting more and more—
And kept our old collection!
130
Beauty and the Beast
The seeds of flowers from isle to isle
The birds have brought, the winds have blown;
The faces of our daisies smile
In meadows of the lands unknown;
And tales our fathers told erewhile
Like flowers through all the world are sown.
The birds have brought, the winds have blown;
The faces of our daisies smile
In meadows of the lands unknown;
And tales our fathers told erewhile
Like flowers through all the world are sown.
The lover strange, the lady's woe,
The Prince enchanted and released—
The tale 'neath Himalayan snow
Was chanted by the Vedic priest,
And little Kaffir children know
Their Kaffir Beauty and the Beast.
The Prince enchanted and released—
The tale 'neath Himalayan snow
Was chanted by the Vedic priest,
And little Kaffir children know
Their Kaffir Beauty and the Beast.
And here, for English children, here
By him who best knew Fairyland,
Are drawn the gentle Beauty dear
And (changed by the enchanter's wand)
The Beast, unbending o'er his bier,
His tail caressed by Beauty's hand.
By him who best knew Fairyland,
Are drawn the gentle Beauty dear
And (changed by the enchanter's wand)
The Beast, unbending o'er his bier,
His tail caressed by Beauty's hand.
131
Ah, maidens, mark the moral old!
From ugliness you need not wince,
Nor turn a cruel face and cold
On men who're not Apollos, since
Plain lovers may have hearts of gold,
The Husband prove the Fairy Prince.
From ugliness you need not wince,
Nor turn a cruel face and cold
On men who're not Apollos, since
Plain lovers may have hearts of gold,
The Husband prove the Fairy Prince.
Urvasi and Pururavas are the persons in the Vedic version of Beauty and the Beast. The Kaffir version is in Callaway's Tales from the Amazulu. (Note by A. L.)
‘Him who best knew Fairyland’ is Dicky Doyle, whose picture of Beauty and the Beast these verses illustrate. [See Christmas Number of Longman's Magazine for 1884.]
132
Ballade of his Books
Here stand my books, line upon line
They reach the roof, and row by row,
They speak of faded tastes of mine,
And things I did, but do not, know:
Old school books, useless long ago,
Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,
Could scarcely answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’—
The many things I've tried and failed in!
They reach the roof, and row by row,
They speak of faded tastes of mine,
And things I did, but do not, know:
Old school books, useless long ago,
Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,
Could scarcely answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’—
The many things I've tried and failed in!
Here's Villon, in morocco fine,
(The poet starved, in mud and snow,)
Glatigny does not crave to dine,
And René's tears forget to flow;
And here's a work by Mrs. Crowe,
With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in;
Ah, all my ghosts have gone below—
The many things I've tried and failed in!
(The poet starved, in mud and snow,)
Glatigny does not crave to dine,
And René's tears forget to flow;
And here's a work by Mrs. Crowe,
With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in;
Ah, all my ghosts have gone below—
The many things I've tried and failed in!
133
He's touched, this mouldy Greek divine,
The Princess D'Este's hand of snow;
And here the arms of D'Hoym shine,
And there's a tear-bestained Rousseau:
Here's Carlyle shrieking ‘woe on woe’
(The first edition, this, he wailed in);
I once believed in him—but oh,
The many things I've tried and failed in!
The Princess D'Este's hand of snow;
And here the arms of D'Hoym shine,
And there's a tear-bestained Rousseau:
Here's Carlyle shrieking ‘woe on woe’
(The first edition, this, he wailed in);
I once believed in him—but oh,
The many things I've tried and failed in!
Envoy
Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thineQuite other balances are scaled in;
May you succeed, though I repine—
‘The many things I've tried and failed in!’
134
Ballade of the Unattainable
The Books I cannot hope to buy,
Their phantoms round me waltz and wheel;
They pass before the dreaming eye,
Ere sleep the dreaming eye can seal.
A kind of literary reel
They dance; how fair the bindings shine!
Prose cannot tell them what I feel—
The books that never can be mine!
Their phantoms round me waltz and wheel;
They pass before the dreaming eye,
Ere sleep the dreaming eye can seal.
A kind of literary reel
They dance; how fair the bindings shine!
Prose cannot tell them what I feel—
The books that never can be mine!
There frisk editions rare and shy,
Morocco clad from head to heel;
Shakespearian quartos; Comedy
As first she flashed from Richard Steele;
And quaint De Foe on Mrs. Veal;
And, lord of landing net and line,
Old Izaak with his fishing creel,—
The books that never can be mine!
Morocco clad from head to heel;
Shakespearian quartos; Comedy
As first she flashed from Richard Steele;
And quaint De Foe on Mrs. Veal;
And, lord of landing net and line,
Old Izaak with his fishing creel,—
The books that never can be mine!
135
Incunables! for you I sigh,
Black letter, at thy founts I kneel;
Old tales of Perrault's nursery,
For you I'd go without a meal!
For books wherein did Aldus deal
And rare Galliot du Pré I pine.
The watches of the night reveal
The books that never can be mine!
Black letter, at thy founts I kneel;
Old tales of Perrault's nursery,
For you I'd go without a meal!
For books wherein did Aldus deal
And rare Galliot du Pré I pine.
The watches of the night reveal
The books that never can be mine!
Envoy
Prince, hear a hopeless bard's appeal;Reverse the rules of Mine and Thine;
Make it legitimate to steal
The books that never can be mine!
136
Ballade of the Bookworm
Far in the past I peer, and see
A child upon the nursery floor,
A child with books 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!
A child upon the nursery floor,
A child with books 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!
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!
137
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 Muses' hill;
Though something's gone from stream and shore,
The books I loved, I love them still!
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 Muses' 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.
138
Old Friends
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 the truth in a world of lies,
And all that in man is great or wise.
Better than men or 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 is 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.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |