Ballads of Books

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G. J. Coombes, 1886 - Book verse - 174 pages
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Page 128 - Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
Page 117 - Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind 'away: O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!— But soft!
Page 128 - My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.
Page 154 - And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. First, let us view the form, the size, the dress; For these the manners, nay the mind, express: That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid; Those ample clasps, of solid metal made; The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age; The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page; On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold...
Page 120 - As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart...
Page 73 - 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 favour have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought ; Not...
Page 20 - To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers — folks that fish With literary hooks. Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through ; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you. I, of my " Spenser " quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken ; Of " Lamb " I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my " Bacon ;" And then I saw my " Crabbe " at last, Like Hamlet, backward go, And, as the tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my
Page 26 - SPEAK low—tread softly through these halls; Here Genius lives enshrined ; Here reign, in silent majesty, The monarchs of the mind. A mighty spirit-host they come, From every age and clime; Above the buried wrecks of years, They breast the tide of Time.
Page 151 - Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude : — Silent they are, but though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound ; Here all that live no more ; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye. Blest be the gracious power who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind ! — Beasts may convey and tuneful birds may sing Their mutual feelings in the opening spring ; But man alone...
Page 110 - SILENT companions of the lonely hour, Friends who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take — Let me return to you, this turmoil ending, Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought...

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