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SONNET.
_Found by Mr. Alexander Ireland in_ LEIGH HUNT. _the London 'Examiner' of December 24, 1815, and not anywhere included in the poet's collected works._
Were I to name, out of the times gone by, The poets dearest to me, I should say, Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way; Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye; Milton for cla.s.sic taste, and harp strung high; Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play; Horace for chatting with, from day to day; Shakspere for all, but most society.
But which take with me, could I take but one?
Shakspere, as long as I was unoppressed With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser; But did I wish, out of the common sun, To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest, And dream of things far off and healing,--Spenser.
MY BOOKS.
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. _From the Boston 'Transcript.'_
On my study shelves they stand, Well known all to eye and hand, Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold, In morocco rich and old.
Some in paper, plain and cheap, Some in muslin, calf, and sheep; Volumes great and volumes small, Ranged along my study wall; But their contents are past finding By their size or by their binding.
There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art; Costing more, 'tis well believed, Than the author e'er received.
But its contents? Idle tales, Flappings of a shallop's sails!
In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning.
Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook.
Take it down, and lo! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage: Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns each line with deathless glory.
On my study shelves they stand; But my study walls expand, As thought's pinions are unfurled, Till they compa.s.s all the world.
Endless files go marching by, Men of lowly rank and high, Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned, Some in homespun, fortune-scorned; But G.o.d's scales that all are weighed in Heed not what each man's arrayed in!
TO MY BOOKSELLER.
_This is from the third of the poet's books_ BEN JONSON. _of epigrams. Bucklersbury was the street most affected by grocers and apothecaries._
Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well, Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so too; I give thee leave; but crave, For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have my t.i.tle-leaf on posts or walls, Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man, Who scarce can spell thy hard names; whose knight less can.
If without these vile arts it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 't will well.
TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE.
_This is the eighty-sixth of the poet's first book of epigrams, and, like its immediate_ BEN JONSON. _predecessor, it was addressed to a gentleman bound in bonds of friends.h.i.+p to many of the men of genius of his time._
When I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks Upon thy well-made choice of friends and books; Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends In making thy friends books, and thy books friends: Now must I give thy life and deed the voice Attending such a study, such a choice; Where, though 't be love that to thy praise doth move, It was a knowledge that begat that love.
IN THE ALb.u.m OF LUCY BARTON.
CHARLES LAMB. _Written in 1824 for the daughter of his friend Bernard Barton._
Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportioned scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here designed, Let the reader emblemed find Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;
Saying fetched from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding; Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding,
Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--he banished hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.
BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.
A. LANG. _From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880._
In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter _bise_, He book-hunts while the loungers fly,-- He book-hunts, though December freeze; In breeches baggy at the knees, And heedless of the public jeers, For these, for these, he h.o.a.rds his fees,-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled Romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is _Spes_!
But ah! the fabled treasure flees; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease, Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
ENVOY.
Prince, all the things that tease and please, Fame, love, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?
