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Show B.illnd ot the Making' of Books. When chlmitpys streak the city nlr, Ami garrets hide, the poet's shiitnc, Where cold nud hunger and despair Do all their best to quench the flame, Where genius goes ill shod and lame, And has to borrow of u friend, Whero creditors Its spirit tamo, Of making books there Is no end. When Spring has souirlit tho meadows fair, And standing rhymsters do thesnmo When summer lays her bosom bun;, And sirllii'S woo each n sylvan damo, When autumn .comes our toll tu claim, And bookmen nil her call attend, When winter chills thu stoutest frame. Of making books (hero Is no end. Wlille wo loo little oftpn dare, And oftentimes ton high we aim, While llatiery shall spread her snare, Anil carping critics rend nnd malm, While still lie lies who overcame, Ami knows notmeu his work command, While all loo late comos pralxo or bluine, Youth, that on high wouldst write thy mime In fairest letters ever penned, Seek ert alone, not passing-fame, Of making books there Is no end. . Bookman. |
