Alive along these crowded shelves;
And Shakspere treads again his stage,
And Chaucer paints anew his age.
As if some Pantheon's marbles broke
Their stony trance, and lived and spoke,
Life thrills along the alcoved hall,
The lords of thought awake our call.
THE COUNTRY SQUIRE.
TOMAS YRIARTE. _An anonymous translation of one of the
'Literary Fables.'_
A country squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often blessed with fortune's smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnished it
In splendid style.
"One thing is wanting," said a friend; "for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use."
"'Tis true; but 'zounds!" replied the squire with glee,
"The lumber-room in yonder northern wing
(I wonder I ne'er thought of it) will be
The very thing.
"I'll have it fitted up without delay
With shelves and presses of the newest mode
And rarest wood, befitting every way
A squire's abode."
"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 booby 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),
Assembled there."
The work was done; the simulated hoards
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 surpassed
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 titles, 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 fashioned 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 Nepenthè,
I seek an antidote for care--
Of which most men indeed have plenty.
"Five hundred times at least," I've said--
My wife assures 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 gods! 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, cluster 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._