University of Virginia Library

[More books!—A juggler, so they say]

More books!—A juggler, so they say,
In half an hour his tree can grow;
While years, by Grannam Nature's way,
Requires the gardener, dull and slow.

[The printer and binder have given such a look]

The printer and binder have given such a look
To poor Syllabub's froth, that we name it “a book.”

[Great Medium, sufficiently clever to write]

Great Medium, sufficiently clever to write,
Sufficiently stupid to miss taking fright
At his very first page,
From youth to old age
Adds volume to volume, luxuriantly trite.

[How clever soever your Book may be]

How clever soever your Book may be,
No throb of life therein I see;
The thing is but a costly toy,
Instead of a wonder, a power, a joy,
A gift out of eternity.

[Could famous authors' Ghosts get at their books]

Could famous authors' Ghosts get at their books,
How much they would rub out!—or try to—zooks!

To a Writer.

[I have my old Lempriere and new Doctor Smith in the study]

I have my old Lempriere and new Doctor Smith in the study;
Latin I learn'd at school, also a trifle of Greek;
Most of the strange old stories, beautiful, ticklish, bloody,
Fairly well I know,—at all events where to seek.
O what talk there has been about Jupiter, Juno, and Venus!
(Zeus, Aphrodite, Here, the recenter fashion goes.)
Have we not said and sung enough on the subject between us?
Leave the Olympians, I pray you, leave them awhile to repose!

[This is worth noting: wit's controll'd by dulness]

This is worth noting: wit's controll'd by dulness;
The wise man's thought is seldom said in fulness;
Elixir to the souls of two or three,
Poison, he fears, to common men 'twould be.

Writing.

A man who keeps a diary, pays
Due toll to many tedious days;
But life becomes eventful—then
His busy hand forgets the pen.
Most books, indeed, are records less
Of fulness than of emptiness.

Prim.

Of Grammar and of Science every rule
Knows Prim, and is in short a finish'd fool.

Book and Author.

Here is a message of important look,
As though the Heavens by special angel sent it;
But when you've question'd—How much means the Book?
Enquire (alas!)—How much the Author meant it.

PLUS ULTRA.

“Count no man happy ere his death.” And then
May come the foolish biographic pen.

On a Certain Scientific Writer.

A vile style hath the commentator;
Not such, thank Heav'n, thy text, dear Nature!
Thy mystic laws (like men's of old)
Ever in poetry are told.

[In ladies' writing if no other aid is]

In ladies' writing if no other aid is,
It shows the minds and morals of our ladies.

[Eyebrow, the over-educated man]

Eyebrow, the over-educated man,
Tips us the high style, as he only can,
Philistine-hater,—till he's overthrown
(Disguised Goliath!) by some pebble-stone.

Maximilian Gusher.

A torrent of abuse, or praise,
What matters which?—I'll pour,
Let folk but on the sparkle gaze
And listen to the roar.

[Form, subject, given—I'll find the skill]

Form, subject, given—I'll find the skill,
And deftly cook whate'er you will,
Devil—whipt cream, all's one to me,
So long as the chef's fine hand you see.

[Among the tyrannies, the tyranny]

Among the tyrannies, the tyranny
Of Genius counts not least; whose subtlety
O'ercometh those that can the rest defy.

[How earn'st thou scourging, famed Boccaccio?]

How earn'st thou scourging, famed Boccaccio?
Less by thy pictures than thy frames, that show
Figures of gentleness made foul and low.

[When you account for Hamlet, Monsieur Taine]

When you account for Hamlet, Monsieur Taine,
Pray don't omit as “factor,” Shakespeare's brain.

[The Teacher lacking truth and lacking love]

The Teacher lacking truth and lacking love
Life's true interpreter will scarcely prove.

[For priests and chieftains, people took of old]

For priests and chieftains, people took of old
No sickly, puny, purblind, halt, or maim'd,
But men of soul and body strong and bold,
Whose vigour, cheer, and confidence outflamed
To animate the timid, warm the cold.
All life is greaten'd still when these are named.
And shall we, in the eternal sphere of thought,
Accept for leaders men whose fitting place
Were hospital or madhouse?—who disgrace
The world they live in, then declare it nought?

[The Writer's face as Frontispiece display'd]

The Writer's face as Frontispiece display'd
(His true face, not one for the public made),
All his pretence of genius had outweigh'd.

Books.

Supposing it your part to read
And not to write (worse luck indeed!),
Leave the librarians great and small
And hang some shelves upon your wall,
Then buy your Books, and never sell,
(Buy, don't borrow) read them well,
And count the best for chosen friends
And comrades till your earth-lease ends.

[Writing is now an adjunct to “the Trade;”]

Writing is now an adjunct to “the Trade;”
Nay, most Books by machinery are made.

Two Visitors to the Printing Exhibition.

G. C.
“See, Caxton, how thy name is glorified
In England, and throughout the world wide!
Thy little press i' th' Amry was indeed
Like to that little grain of mustard seed,
And now hath grown into a mighty tree
Beyond all else for leafy dignity,
Nay into many trees, which fill the land,
Laden with fruit of knowledge for the hand
Of every man to gather at his ease.”

W. C.
“Dear Poet! little joy have I in these
Mountains of inky paper, that would climb
Half-way to yonder moon in course of time
Were printed leaves indeed immortal things,
Not trivialler, the most, than May-flies' wings,
And scarce more durable. Thy learnèd clerk
Had twenty books, which he did read and mark
And get great good of. O for scribes once more!
If men thereby in poetry and lore
Might, unconfusèd, study of the best,
Think privately their own thoughts for the rest,
And do their work, and, after, take their mirth.
This Printing-Press, meseems, doth cumber earth;
Souls turn'd to words, and words to merchandize.
The good books were not written in such wise.”

G. C.
“Nay, William, we two may no longer swink,
And the world rolls, whatever we may think.
How changed is London! merely this one place
To greet us with an old familiar face.
A noisy smoky scrambling world! 'twere woe
To bide much longer here. Then let us go.
I thank thee for my Tales, be how things may.
They're children of the earth, and let them stay.”