My lady oft-times chideth me
Because I love so much to be
Amid my honest folios.

"Thou lovest more to pore on those"-
In petty scorn she sometimes saith-
"Than on thy mistress' eyes, i' faith!
Small good true lovers gain meseems
From dust and must of printed reams."
Ah! would that I could make her see
What is so clear to thee and me,
How much our happy love-life owes
To those poor honest folios.
She little dreams that hidden there
I found a glass that mirrored her,
A magic glass which showed her me
As my own soul's ideal she,
Long ere we met and wedded eyes
Or made a soft exchange of sighs.
Nor knoweth she that thence I drew
The thought that, sweet as morning dew,
Changeth the leaden life to gold,
And keepeth Love from growing old.
Nor may I tell what things beside
Within those leathern covers hide.
How would she scorn my small deceit,
Dare I confess that fine conceit,
That pleased her so the other day,
Was from an old-world roundelay;
And many another charm and grace
That keeps Love young in spite of days,
Was but a bloom that long had lain
'Mid yellow pages young again.
So, ladies all, if lovers choose

A little space thine arms to loose,
And to their books to draw apart,

Be ye not, therefore, faint of heart; 'They go for very love of you, For you may hold this saying true"There's many a lover worse than those Who love their honest folios."

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

THE BIBLIOPHILE.

The lover may rave of his ruddy-cheeked lass,
The sailor may sing of the sea;

And topers may tell of the charms of the glass,
But Books have more beauty for me.

A book is a treasure more precious than gold;
An heirloom bequeathed to mankind;
A casket of wisdom in which we behold
The kingliest gems of the mind.
Though humble my lot, yet dull care I defy,
With books for my gentle allies;

And folly and vice from my presence will fly,
When I think of the good and the wise.

My books shall supply me with balm for each blow

When fortune my best effort spurns;
With Swift I will laugh at the high and the low,
And mourn o'er a "mousie" with Burns.
While sitting at ease by my own fireside,
A famous old Book on my knee;

A lover alone with his beautiful bride,
Would win little envy from me.

My heart feels at peace as through book-world I

roain,

The fair realms of fancy are mine,

And Love's holy spirit now rests on my home, My book is the Volume Divine.

ALFRED C. BRANT..