The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And, over his pot of beer,

The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer.

He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off clamorous deep, -
But we- we love their lullaby song
Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound
Groans of the stony mart:
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you
round,

Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine
And fold the gentle sheep,

And set the herring a-soak in brine,
But now, little tulip, sleep!

КЕЕР me, I pray, in wisdom's way,
That I may truths eternal seek;
I need protecting care to-day,
My purse is light, my flesh is weak.
So banish from my erring heart

All baleful appetites and hints Of Satan's fascinating art,

Of first editions, and of prints.
Direct me in some godly walk
Which leads away from bookish strife,
That I with pious deed and talk
May extra-illustrate my life.

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee
To keep me in temptation's way,
I humbly ask that I may be

Most notably beset to-day;
Let my temptation be a book,

Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep Whereon, when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap. Oh, let it such a volume be

As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.

DIBDIN'S GHOST

DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read
The tomes you so despise,
A spectre rose beside the bed,
And spake in this true wise:
"From Canaan's beatific coast
I've come to visit thee,

For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

I bade him welcome, and we twain
Discussed with buoyant hearts
The various things that appertain
To bibliomaniac arts.

"Since you are fresh from t'other side, Pray tell me of that host

That treasured books before they died,"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"They 've entered into perfect rest;
For in the life they 've won
There are no auctions to molest,

No creditors to dun.

Their heavenly rapture has no bounds
Beside that jasper sea;

It is a joy unknown to Lowndes,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak
Of biblio-bliss above,

For I am one of those who seek
What bibliomaniacs love.
"But tell me, for I long to hear
What doth concern me most,

Are wives admitted to that sphere?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"The women folk are few up there;
For 't were not fair, you know,

That they our heavenly joy should share Who vex us here below.

The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we;

They knew our fads, and did n't mind,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"But what of those who scold at us
When we would read in bed?
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss
If we buy books instead?
And what of those who've dusted not
Our motley pride and boast,
Shall they profane that sacred spot ?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path, Which leads where torments roll,

And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their

wrath

Upon the guilty soul.

Untouched of bibliomaniac grace,
That saveth such as we,

They wallow in that dreadful place,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

To my dear wife will I recite What things I've heard you say;

She'll let me read the books by night
She's let me buy by day.
For we together by and by
Would join that heavenly host;
She's earned a rest as well as I,"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

O FOUNTAIN of Bandusia!
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;

A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.

O fountain of Bandusia!

The Dog-star's hateful spell
No evil brings into the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,
And quaff thy gracious cheer.

O fountain of Bandusia!

Ennobled shalt thou be,

For I shall sing the joys that spring
Beneath yon ilex-tree.

Yes, fountain of Bandusia,
Posterity shall know

The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
Singing and dancing go.