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;
Who call and take some favourite tome,
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.
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."
For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra guilt.
A circulating library
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."
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."
O'er everything, however slight,
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."
I wondered into what balloon
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my "Marvell" went.
My "Mallet" served to knock me down,
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."
While studying o'er the fire one day
My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke;
They bore my "Colman" clean away,
And carried off my "Coke."
They picked my "Locke," to me far more
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
Without a "Home" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift,
Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"
As swiftly went my "Steele."
"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,
Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself
Is excommunicated.
My little "Suckling" in the grave
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose—a "Savage."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"
My "Bunyan" has been gone.
My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,
My "Taylor" too must fail;
To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,
In vain I offered "Bayle."
I "Prior," sought, but could not see
The "Hood" so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"
Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
Yet could not "Tickell" touch;
And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"
And surely mickle's much.
'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid,"
Nor even use my "Hughes."
To "West," to "South," I turn my head,
Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,
I ask 'em for my "Rogers."
They took my "Horne"—and "Horne Tooke" too,
And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,
The flames that it has lit.
My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,
If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doted on
Was swept off—with my "Broome."
My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
"My 'Livy' has eloped!"
My life is wasting fast away—
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I fixed a lock on "Grey"
There's grey upon my locks.
I'm far from young—am growing pale—
I see my "Butter" fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
'Tis "Burton" I reply.
They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"
And eased my "Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say,
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me "Gay,"
They have not left me "Sterne."
Laman Blanchard.
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