A DUODECIMO in yellow boards,
Red linen back and light-blue paper-label;
" Horace by Francis, " — this it is affords
The " guardian keys " to fancies that enable
Me to draw boldly on the Muse's hoards; —
Even his little volume on my table.
The title neatly lettered — pen and ink;
Edges uncut, by Time and touch soiled sadly;
Within, a portrait — copper-plate, I think —
Engraved by W. Wise, — the eyes look badly
(The poet had weak eyes) and seem to blink:
They would have welcomed spectacles right gladly.
The next page shows two lovers, — 'neath the twain
This couplet, cut in slim italics faintly: —
" Clear was the Night, the face of Heaven Serene, "
(The capitals are introduced here quaintly, — )
" Bright shone the Moon (a)midst her starry train. "
The whole effect more classical than saintly —
As is befitting. Then the publishers: —
" F. & J. Allman, Gt. Queen Str't, " — and after,
" Lincoln's Inn Fields, " — the which all here occurs
Sandwiched 'twixt " London " and the date, — as laughter
Breaks between merry sayings and defers
Utterance of bons mots that will shake the rafter.
The date aforesaid: 1826, —
Which makes it eight-and-fifty golden summers
Or silver winters, since from out the mix
Of a town bookstall, open to all comers,
Some scholar bought it and burnt midnight wicks
Perusing it and sipping strong punch " rummers. "
A short " Life " of the author comes before
The " Odes " and " Satires " and " Epistles, " telling
The story of his feeting in the war
At Philippi; — how he desired a dwelling
Far from the crowd, and how his head was hoar
At forty, and his figure roundly swelling
To comfortable stoutness, which agreed
With his small stature and convivial manner;
All these particulars we herein read; —
Likewise how he was sure that on the banner
Of Fame his rhymes would down the ages speed.
( His muse had more than flattery to fan her.)
Then, too, this tiny volume (on my soul!
'Tis gossip) tells how great Augustus Caesar
Sent him a " little, short, thick " book or scroll,
And, veiling the mild tyrant in the teaser,
Compared the poet to the parchment roll, —
(This from Suetonius unto you and me, sir.)
Thrice happy bard, to win Maecenas' heart!
Small wonder that thou perished in thy sorrow
At his decease. When such rare spirits part
It is to meet again upon the morrow —
As when one drinks a cup of deadliest art,
Another from dead lips his death may borrow.
Rest thou in peace! Thy soul within my hand
Waits to commune with a congenial spirit.
Methinks Time's slender thread of glittering sand
Runs upward in the hour-glass. I can hear it
Leading away the barrier years that stand
Between this age and thine, as I draw near it.
Red linen back and light-blue paper-label;
" Horace by Francis, " — this it is affords
The " guardian keys " to fancies that enable
Me to draw boldly on the Muse's hoards; —
Even his little volume on my table.
The title neatly lettered — pen and ink;
Edges uncut, by Time and touch soiled sadly;
Within, a portrait — copper-plate, I think —
Engraved by W. Wise, — the eyes look badly
(The poet had weak eyes) and seem to blink:
They would have welcomed spectacles right gladly.
The next page shows two lovers, — 'neath the twain
This couplet, cut in slim italics faintly: —
" Clear was the Night, the face of Heaven Serene, "
(The capitals are introduced here quaintly, — )
" Bright shone the Moon (a)midst her starry train. "
The whole effect more classical than saintly —
As is befitting. Then the publishers: —
" F. & J. Allman, Gt. Queen Str't, " — and after,
" Lincoln's Inn Fields, " — the which all here occurs
Sandwiched 'twixt " London " and the date, — as laughter
Breaks between merry sayings and defers
Utterance of bons mots that will shake the rafter.
The date aforesaid: 1826, —
Which makes it eight-and-fifty golden summers
Or silver winters, since from out the mix
Of a town bookstall, open to all comers,
Some scholar bought it and burnt midnight wicks
Perusing it and sipping strong punch " rummers. "
A short " Life " of the author comes before
The " Odes " and " Satires " and " Epistles, " telling
The story of his feeting in the war
At Philippi; — how he desired a dwelling
Far from the crowd, and how his head was hoar
At forty, and his figure roundly swelling
To comfortable stoutness, which agreed
With his small stature and convivial manner;
All these particulars we herein read; —
Likewise how he was sure that on the banner
Of Fame his rhymes would down the ages speed.
( His muse had more than flattery to fan her.)
Then, too, this tiny volume (on my soul!
'Tis gossip) tells how great Augustus Caesar
Sent him a " little, short, thick " book or scroll,
And, veiling the mild tyrant in the teaser,
Compared the poet to the parchment roll, —
(This from Suetonius unto you and me, sir.)
Thrice happy bard, to win Maecenas' heart!
Small wonder that thou perished in thy sorrow
At his decease. When such rare spirits part
It is to meet again upon the morrow —
As when one drinks a cup of deadliest art,
Another from dead lips his death may borrow.
Rest thou in peace! Thy soul within my hand
Waits to commune with a congenial spirit.
Methinks Time's slender thread of glittering sand
Runs upward in the hour-glass. I can hear it
Leading away the barrier years that stand
Between this age and thine, as I draw near it.