My little book, that's neat and new, Fresh polished with dry pumice stone, To whom, Cornelius, but to you, Shall _this_ be sent, for you alone-- (Who used to praise my lines, my own)-- Have dared, in weighty volumes three, (What labors, Jove, what learning thine!) To tell the Tale of Italy, And all the legend of our line.
So take, whate'er its worth may be, My Book,--but Lady and Queen of Song, This one kind gift I crave of thee, That it may live for ages long!
BEVERLY CHEW. _From the 'Critic' of March 13, 1886._
Old Books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage "Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!
And you, O Friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirate's rage, Old Books are best.
What though the prints be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old Books are best.
THOMAS S. COLLIER. _Written expressly for this collection._
Hid by the garret's dust, and lost Amid the cobwebs wreathed above, They lie, these volumes that have cost Such weeks of hope and waste of love.
The Theologian's garnered lore Of Scripture text, and words divine; And verse, that to some fair one bore Thoughts that like fadeless stars would shine;
The grand wrought epics, that were born From mighty throes of heart and brain,-- Here rest, their covers all unworn, And all their pages free from stain.
Here lie the chronicles that told Of man, and his heroic deeds-- Alas! the words once "writ in gold" Are tarnished so that no one reads.
And tracts that smote each other hard, While loud the friendly plaudits rang, All animosities discard, Where old, moth-eaten garments hang.
The heroes that were made to strut In tinsel on "life's mimic stage" Found, all too soon, the deepening rut Which kept them silent in the page;
And heroines, whose loveless plight Should wake the sympathetic tear, In volumes sombre as the night Sleep on through each succeeding year.
Here Phyllis languishes forlorn, And Strephon waits beside his flocks, And early huntsmen wind the horn, Within the boundaries of a box.