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CLINTON SCOLLARD. _In the Library_ 124
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. _The Book-Hunter_ 126
ROBERT SOUTHEY. _The Library_ 128
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. _Picture-Books in Winter_ 130
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. _Companions_ 131
RICHARD THOMSON. _The Book of Life_ 133
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. _On Certain Books_ 135
HENRY VAUGHAN. _To his Books_ 136
SAMUEL WADDINGTON. [1]_Literature and Nature_ 138
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. _The Library_ 139
TOMAS YRIARTE. _The Country Squire_ 141
ANONYMOUS. _Old Books_ 144
_APPENDIX._
GEORGE CRABBE. _The Library_ 149
A FINAL WORD. [1]_The Collector to his Library_ (Austin Dobson) 173
[Ill.u.s.tration]
[1] The poems thus marked were written or translated for the present collection.
=Ballads of Books=
BALLADS OF BOOKS.
THE BABY IN THE LIBRARY.
EDWARD D. ANDERSON. _From 'Wide-Awake' for May, 1885._
Within these solemn, book-lined walls, Did mortal ever see A critic so unprejudiced, So full of mirthful glee?
Just watch her at that lower shelf: See, there she's thumped her nose Against the place where Webster stands In dignified repose.
Such heavy books she scorns; and she Considers Vapereau, And Beeton, too, though full of life, Quite stupid, dull, and slow.
She wants to take a higher flight, Aspiring little elf!
And on her mother's arm at length She gains a higher shelf.
But, oh! what liberties she takes With those grave, learned men; Historians, and scientists, And even "Rare old Ben!"
At times she takes a spiteful turn, And pommels, with her fists, De Quincey, Jeffrey, and Carlyle, And other essayists.
And, when her wrath is fully roused, And she's disposed for strife, It almost looks as if she'd like To take Macaulay's 'Life.'
Again, in sympathetic mood, She gayly smiles at Gay, And punches Punch, and frowns at Sterne In quite a dreadful way.
In vain the Sermons shake their heads: She does not care for these; But catches, with intense delight, At all the Tales she sees.
Where authors chance to meet her views, Just praise they never lack; To comfort and encourage them, She pats them on the back.
MY BOOKS.
FRANCIS BENNOCH. _From the 'Storm and Other Poems.' 1878._
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 friends.h.i.+p most sincere; Here talk I with the wise in ages gone, And with the n.o.bly gifted of our own.
If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind, Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find.
THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.
LAMAN BLANCHARD. _From his 'Poetical Works.' 1876._
How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers--folks that fish With literary hooks;
