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With “ Laws of Whist," and those of Libel, And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible.
And some are dear as friends, and some
We keep because we need them; And some we ward from worm and thumb,
And love too well to read them. My own are poor and mostly new, But I've an Elzevir or two.
OLD AND YOUNG.
CHRISTOPHER PEASE CRANCH.
That as a gift is prized, the next
For trouble in the finding; This Aldine for its early text,
That Plantin for the binding; This
sorry Herrick hides a flower, The record of one perfect hour.
But whether it be worth or looks
We gently love or strongly, Such virtue doth reside in books
We scarce can love them wrongly; To sages an eternal school, A hobby (harmless) to the fool.
Nor altogether fool is he
Who orders, free from doubt, Those books which "no good library
Should ever be without," And blandly locks the well-glazed door On tomes that issue never more.
IN GOD'S ACRE.
DE LIBRIS. TRUE—there are books and books. There's Gray,
For instance, and there's Bacon; There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet,
And also Colton's “ Lacon,”
Two things are ever with us, youth and deathThe Faun that pipes, and Pluto unbeguiled; From age to age still plays the eternal child,
Nor heeds the eternal doom that followeth,
E. C. LEFROY,
They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days,
And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,
“ There is nobody but Rees Morgan's cow
Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. 'Tis the time and place for a life-long vow,
Such as I owe you, and you owe me.”
“Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well?
I shall drop the brown pitcher, if you let go: The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell,
And the shadows are shuddering to and fro."
And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love,
And death beneath and above,
That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
“ 'Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay,
Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows alway
Counter the flood of the world's success,"
“There is no other way for love to flow;
Whenever it springs in a woman's breast, To the home of its own heart it must go,
And run contrary to all the rest."
“Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love,
And pledge me your maiden faith thereon, By the touch of the lettered stone above,
And the holy water of St. John."
From the winds of the north and the south
They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth,
They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
“Oh what shall I say? My heart drops low;
My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat. Is love to be measured hy handful so?
And you know that I love you-without that.”