FAVOURITE POETRY: OLD STORYBOOKS

OLD STORYBOOKS

By Eliza Cook

Old storybooks! old storybooks! we owe ye much, old friends, 
Bright-colored threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. 
Who can forget ye? — who can spurn the ministers of joy 
That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? 
I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat 
Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet: 
A promised story was enough — I turned with eager smile, 
To learn about the naughty pig that would not mount the stile.  

There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand, 
With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand; 
Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show, 
And storybooks upon a string, appeared in brilliant row. 
What should I have? the peppermint was incense in my nose, 
But I had heard of hero Jack who slew his giant foes: 
My lonely coin was balanced long before the tempting stall, 
'Twixt book and bullseye, but, forsooth! Jack got it after all. 

Talk of your vellum, gold embossed, morocco, roan, and calf, 
The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half: 
And as to pictures! well we know that never one was made 
Like that where Bluebeard swings aloft his wife-destroying blade. 
Hume's England! — pshaw! what history of battles, states and men 
Can vie with Memoirs all about sweet little Jenny Wren? 
And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a nation dumb, 
To those recorded as performed by Master Thomas Thumb? 

Miss Riding Hood, poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread, 
When the grim wolf, in grandmamma's best bonnet, showed his head; 
I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly peeped beneath, 
And made remarks about great eyes, and wondered at great teeth.  
And then the house that Jack built, and the beanstalk Jack cut down, 
And Jack's eleven brothers, on their travels of renown; 
And Jack, whose cracked and plastered head insured him lyric fame, 
These, these, methinks, make vulgar "Jack" a rather classic name. 

Fair Valentine  I loved him well; but, better still the bear 
That hugged his brother in her arms with tenderness and care. 
I lingered spell-bound o'er the page, though even-tide wore late, 
And left my supper all untouched to fathom Orson's fate. 
Then Robin with his Merry Men, a noble band were they, 
We'll never see the like again, go hunting where we may. 
In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt fancy bore me on, 
Through Sherwood's dewy forest-paths, close after Little John. 

Miss Cinderella and her shoe kept long their reigning powers, 
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours; 
And Sinbad, wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track, 
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back. 
And oh! that tale — the matchless tale, that made me dream at night 
Of Crusoe's shaggy robe of fur, and Friday's death-spurred flight; 
Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, see 
The savage dancers on the sand — the raft upon the sea. 

Old story books! old story books! I doubt if Reason's Feast  
Provides a dish that pleases more than Beauty and the Beast; 
I doubt if all the Ledger-leaves that bear a sterling sum, 
Yield happiness like those that told of Master Horner's plum. 
Old storybooks! old storybooks! I never pass ye by 
Without a sort of furtive glance — right loving, though 'tis sly; 
And fair suspicion may arise — that yet my spirit grieves 
For dear Old Mother Hubbard's dog and Ali Baba's Thieves.