O'er Quartos, where our Fathers read
Entranced, the Book of Shakspere's play,
O'er all that Poe has dreamed of dread,
And all that Herrick sang of gay!
Rare First Editions, duly prized,
Among them dearest far I rate
The tome where Walton's hand revised
His magical 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!
But back to town my Muse must fly,
And taste the smoke, and list to them
Who cry the News, and seem to cry
(With each Gladstonian victory),
Woe, woe unto Jerusalem! [20]
GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY.
A. Lang. From 'Longman's Magazine,' July, 1886.
Suppose, when now the house is dumb,
When lights are out, and ashes fall,—
Suppose their ancient owners come
To claim our spoils of shop and stall,
Ah me! within the narrow hall
How strange a mob would meet and go,
What famous folk would haunt them all,
Octavo, quarto, folio!
The great Napoleon lays his hand
Upon this eagle-headed N,
That marks for his a pamphlet banned
By all but scandal-loving men,—
A libel from some nameless den
Of Frankfort—Arnaud, à la Sphère,
Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,
Lies o'er the loves of Molière. [21]
Another shade—he does not see
"Boney," the foeman of his race—
The great Sir Walter, this is he
With that grave homely Border face.
He claims his poem of the chase
That rang Benvoirlich's valley through;
And this, that doth the lineage trace
And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch; [22]