Page 26 - Poetry-Books
P. 26
There rest, preserved from dust accurst,
The first editions—and the worst.
And least of all should we that write
With easy jest deride them,
Who hope to leave when “lost to sight”
The best of us inside them,
Dear shrines! where many a scribbler’s name
Has lasted—longer than his fame.
— Cosmo Monkhouse (Ballads of Books, 1887)
The Sultan of My Books
Come hither, my Wither,
My Suckling, my Dryden!
My Hudibras, hither!
My Heinsius from Leyden!
Dear play-books in quarto,
Fat tomes in brown leather,
Stray never too far to
Come back here together !
Books writ on occult and
Heretical letters,
I, I am the Sultan—
Of you and your betters.
I need you all round me;
When wits have grown muddy,
My best hours have found me
With you in my study.
~ 24 ~
