Ballads of Books Part 17

"And when the whole is ready, I'll dispatch My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town."

But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomps of cabinet and shelf, The b.o.o.by squire repented him, and cried Unto himself:--

"This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguy price."

"Now as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood."

"It shall be so, I'll give the shaven deal A coat of paint--a colorable dress, To look like calf or vellum, and conceal Its nakedness."

"And, gilt and lettered with the author's name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be ('tis all the same), a.s.sembled there."

The work was done; the simulated h.o.a.rds Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In binding some; and some, of course, in _boards_, Where all were wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves The choicest tomes, in many an even row Displayed their lettered backs upon the shelves, A goodly show.

With such a stock as seemingly surpa.s.sed The best collection ever formed in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conned their t.i.tles, that the squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man?

_Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and binding, take the hint, and sell His costly library--for painted books Would serve as well._

OLD BOOKS.

_From the appendix of 'How to Read_ ANON. _a Book in the Best Way.'

New York, n. d._

I must confess I love old books!

The dearest, too, perhaps most dearly; Thick, clumpy tomes, of antique looks, In pigskin covers fas.h.i.+oned queerly.

Clasped, chained, or thonged, stamped quaintly too, With figures wondrous strange, or holy Men and women, and cherubs, few Might well from owls distinguish duly.

I love black-letter books that saw The light of day at least three hundred Long years ago; and look with awe On works that live, so often plundered.

I love the sacred dust the more It clings to ancient lore, enshrining Thoughts of the dead, renowned of yore, Embalmed in books, for age declining.

Fit solace, food, and friends more sure To have around one, always handy, When sinking spirits find no cure In news, election brawls, or brandy.

In these old books, more soothing far Than balm of Gilead or Nepenthe, I seek an antidote for care-- Of which most men indeed have plenty.

"Five hundred times at least," I've said-- My wife a.s.sures me--"I would never Buy more old books;" yet lists are made, And shelves are lumbered more than ever.

Ah! that our wives could only see How well the money is invested In these old books, which seem to be By them, alas! so much detested.

There's nothing hath enduring youth, Eternal newness, strength unfailing, Except old books, old friends, old truth, That's ever battling--still prevailing.

'T is better in the past to live Than grovel in the present vilely, In clubs, and cliques, where placemen hive, And faction hums, and dolts rank highly.

To be enlightened, counselled, led, By master minds of former ages, Come to old books--consult the dead-- Commune with silent saints and sages.

Leave me, ye G.o.ds! to my old books-- Polemics yield to sects that wrangle-- Vile "parish politics" to folks Who love to squabble, scheme, and jangle.

Dearly beloved old pigskin tomes!

Of dingy hue--old bookish darlings!

Oh, cl.u.s.ter ever round my rooms, And banish strifes, disputes, and snarlings.

=Appendix= ________________

THE LIBRARY

BY

GEORGE CRABBE

THE LIBRARY.

_In want and danger, the unknown poet sent this poem to Edmund_ GEORGE CRABBE. _Burke, who saw its merit, befriended its author, and procured its publication._

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppressed, Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest, When every object that appears in view Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too; Where shall affliction from itself retire?

Where fade away and placidly expire?

Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; Care blasts the honors of the flowery plain; Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream; For when the soul is laboring in despair, In vain the body breathes a purer air: No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas-- He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze; On the smooth mirror of the deep resides Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides The ghost of every former danger glides.

Thus, in the calms of life, we only see A steadier image of our misery; But lively gales and gently clouded skies Disperse the sad reflections as they rise; And busy thoughts and little cares avail To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.

When the dull thought, by no designs employed, Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed, We bleed anew in every former grief, And joys departed furnish no relief.

Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart: The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, And anxious searches for congenial cares; Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined, By mixed sensations ease th' afflicted mind, And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind; A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes?

Or lead us, willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we?

This BOOKS can do;--nor this alone; they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish and confirm the wise: Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings.

Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure, in all her cares behold!

Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind; See here the balms that pa.s.sion's wounds a.s.suage; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage; Here alteratives, by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul; And round the heart, and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.

Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent mult.i.tude:-- Silent they are--but though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound; Here all that live no more; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind!

Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend; 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.

In sweet repose, when Labor's children sleep, When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep, When Pa.s.sion slumbers in the lover's breast, And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest, Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care?

Because the hope is his that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy, That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days.

Delightful prospect! when we leave behind A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind!

Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day, Shall all our labor, all our care repay.

Yet all are not these births of n.o.ble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous mind; But where the wisest should alone preside, The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide; Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow; Where most he triumphs we his wants perceive, And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.

But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:-- Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find; The curious here to feed a craving mind; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favoring Muse.