THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE

The women-folk are like to books,—

Most pleasing to the eye,

Whereon if anybody looks

He feels disposed to buy.

I hear that many are for sale,—

Those that record no dates,

And such editions as regale

The view with colored plates.

Of every quality and grade

And size they may be found,—

Quite often beautifully made,

As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice,

I'd choose no folio tall,

But some octavo to rejoice

My sight and heart withal,—

As plump and pudgy as a snipe;

Well worth her weight in gold;

Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,

And just the size to hold!

With such a volume for my wife

How should I keep and con!

How like a dream should run my life

Unto its colophon!

Her frontispiece should be more fair

Than any colored plate;

Blooming with health, she would not care

To extra-illustrate.

And in her pages there should be

A wealth of prose and verse,

With now and then a jeu d'esprit,—

But nothing ever worse!

Prose for me when I wished for prose,

Verse when to verse inclined,—

Forever bringing sweet repose

To body, heart, and mind.

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize

In bindings full and fine,

And keep her where no human eyes

Should see her charms, but mine!

With such a fair unique as this

What happiness abounds!

Who — who could paint my rapturous bliss,

My joy unknown to Lowndes!