| |
| A CRAZY bookcase, placed before | |
| A low-price dealer’s open door; | |
| Therein arrayed in broken rows | |
| A ragged crew of rhyme and prose, | |
| The homeless vagrants, waifs, and strays | 5 |
| Whose low estate this line betrays | |
| (Set forth the lesser birds to lime) | |
| YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS 1 DIME! | |
| |
| Ho! dealer; for its motto’s sake | |
| This scarecrow from the shelf I take; | 10 |
| Three starveling volumes bound in one, | |
| Its covers warping in the sun. | |
| Methinks it hath a musty smell, | |
| I like its flavor none too well, | |
| But Yorick’s brain was far from dull, | 15 |
| Though Hamlet pah! ’d, and dropped his skull. | |
| |
| Why, here comes rain! The sky grows dark,— | |
| Was that the roll of thunder? Hark! | |
| The shop affords a safe retreat, | |
| A chair extends its welcome seat, | 20 |
| The tradesman has a civil look | |
| (I ’ve paid, impromptu, for my book), | |
| The clouds portend a sudden shower,— | |
| I ’ll read my purchase for an hour. | |
| |
| What have I rescued from the shelf? | 25 |
| A Boswell, writing out himself! | |
| For though he changes dress and name, | |
| The man beneath is still the same, | |
| Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, | |
| One actor in a dozen parts, | 30 |
| And whatsoe’er the mask may be, | |
| The voice assures us, This is he. | |
| |
| I say not this to cry him down; | |
| I find my Shakespeare in his clown, | |
| His rogues the selfsame parent own; | 35 |
| Nay! Satan talks in Milton’s tone! | |
| Where’er the ocean inlet strays, | |
| The salt sea wave its source betrays; | |
| Where’er the queen of summer blows, | |
| She tells the zephyr, “I ’m the rose!” | 40 |
| |
| And his is not the playwright’s page; | |
| His table does not ape the stage; | |
| What matter if the figures seen | |
| Are only shadows on a screen, | |
| He finds in them his lurking thought, | 45 |
| And on their lips the words he sought, | |
| Like one who sits before the keys | |
| And plays a tune himself to please. | |
| |
| And was he noted in his day? | |
| Read, flattered, honored? Who shall say? | 50 |
| Poor wreck of time the wave has cast | |
| To find a peaceful shore at last, | |
| Once glorying in thy gilded name | |
| And freighted deep with hopes of fame, | |
| Thy leaf is moistened with a tear, | 55 |
| The first for many a long, long year! | |
| |
| For be it more or less of art | |
| That veils the lowliest human heart | |
| Where passion throbs, where friendship glows, | |
| Where pity’s tender tribute flows, | 60 |
| Where love has lit its fragrant fire, | |
| And sorrow quenched its vain desire, | |
| For me the altar is divine, | |
| Its flame, its ashes,—all are mine! | |
| |
| And thou, my brother, as I look | 65 |
| And see thee pictured in thy book, | |
| Thy years on every page confessed | |
| In shadows lengthening from the west, | |
| Thy glance that wanders, as it sought | |
| Some freshly opening flower of thought, | 70 |
| Thy hopeful nature, light and free, | |
| I start to find myself in thee! | |
| |
| Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn | |
| In leather jerkin stained and torn, | |
| Whose talk has filled my idle hour | 75 |
| And made me half forget the shower, | |
| I ’ll do at least as much for you, | |
| Your coat I ’ll patch, your gilt renew, | |
| Read you—perhaps—some other time. | |
| Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime! | 80 |
| |
