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قراءة كتاب Ballads of Books
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[1] The Collector to his Library (Austin Dobson)
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?
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.
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.
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.
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, learnèd men;
Historians, and scientists,
And even "Rare old Ben!"
With those grave, learnèd 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 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.'
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.
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.
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.
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!
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 nobly gifted of our own.
If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind,
Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find.
Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere;
Here talk I with the wise in ages gone,
And with the nobly 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;
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks;
Who call and take some favorite tome,
But never read it through,—
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.
But never read it through,—
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.
Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
Who borrows—never lends:
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.
Who borrows—never lends:
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.
New tales and novels you may shut
From view—'tis all in vain;
They're gone—and though the leaves are "cut"
They never "come again."
From view—'tis all in vain;
They're gone—and though the leaves are "cut"
They never "come again."
For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra-gilt.
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra-gilt.
A circulating library
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.
I, of my Spenser quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of Lamb I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my Bacon.
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of Lamb I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my Bacon.
My Hall and Hill were levelled flat,
But Moore was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them Sprat,
They swallowed up my Pye.
But Moore was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them Sprat,
They swallowed up my Pye.
O'er everything, however slight,
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my Hogg and Fox one night,
And pocketed my Campbell.
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my Hogg and Fox one night,
And pocketed my Campbell.
And then I saw my Crabbe at last,
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And, as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my Rowe.
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And, as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my Rowe.
I wondered into what balloon
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my Marvell went.
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my Marvell went.