That's this, in short: while it no doubt may be Most pleasant for an author small to see A fine edition of his work put out, No man who's sane can ever really doubt
That products of his brain and pen can live Alone for that which they may haply give!
And though on vellum stiff the work appears, It cannot live throughout the after-years,
Unless it has within its leaves some hint Of something further than the style of print And paper-give me Omar on mere waste, I'll choose it rather than some "bookish taste,"
Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale, Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.
I'd choose my Omar print on grocer's wraps Before the vellum books of "bookish" chaps.
_A CONFESSION_
MY epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I've dreamed For many a weary year, came back to me last week.
The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self; Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.
That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side, And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame The name of him I'd cursed was writ; and when I cried, "What portent this?" the rare celestial dame Replied: "Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou'st cursed.
The very man of all men who should be the first Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee- A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed, Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.
_Read thou thy lines again!_"
Ah! bitter was the cup.
I read, withdrew the curse-and tore the epic up.
_THE EDITION DE LOOKS_
How very close to truth these bookish men Can be when in their catalogues they pen
The words descriptive of the wares they hold To tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!
For instance, they have Dryden-splendid set- Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.
'Tis richly bound, its edges gilded-but- Hard fate-as Dryden well deserves-_uncut_!
For who these days would think to buy the screed Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?
In faith if his editions had been kept Amongst the rarities he'd ne'er have crept!
And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes You find so oft in overwhelming homes,
No substance on a Whatman surface placed, In polished leather and in tooling cased,
The gilded edges dazzling to the eye And flaunting all their charms so wantonly.
These book-men, when they catalogue their books, Call them in truth _edition de luxe_.
That's all they have, most of 'em, just plain shape, With less pure wine than any unripe grape.
But tomes that travel on their "looks" indeed Are only good for those who do not read;
And, like most people clad in garments grand, Seem rather heavy for the average hand.
WISE AND OTHERWISE
_NAPOLINI'S ERROR_
PIETRO NAPOLINI DI VENDETTA PASQUARELLE Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well, And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount, To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.
Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time, And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.
No chance had he for music that's developed by a crank, No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.
The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk; He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.
The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach's woe, It struck him in meandering the city to and fro, Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man's snow.
And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.
He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do, Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.
"I wanta shov' da snow," he said, when there at last appeared Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared, A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.
"Go wi," said Fitz, with gesture bold. "Yer cahn't do nothink ere, Yer bloomin', hugly furriner!" he added, with a sneer.
"Hi thinks as 'ow you dagoes is the cuss o' this 'ere land, With wuthy citizens like me 'most starved on every 'and.
Hi vows hif I'd me wi at all hi'd order hout a troop, Hand send the bloomin' lot o' yer 'ead over 'eels in soup.
Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop."
Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he'd spent In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle; While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well, Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake, He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake, And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.
_MY COLOR_
MY best-loved color? Well, I think I like A soft and tender dewy green-for grass.
Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike- In lobster _puree_ or a Sauterne glass.
Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.
It's sort of satisfying to my eyes.
'Tis their own color; and I'm quite fond of This hue also for soft Italian skies.
For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate To pile it on; I like it good and strong Upon the cheeks of her I call my Fate, The loveliest of all the lovely throng.