A MONG my books—what rest is there
From wasting woes! what balm for care!
If ills appal or clouds hang low,
And drooping dim the fleeting show,
I revel still in visions rare.

At will I breathe the classic air,
The wanderings of Ulysses share;
Or see the plume of Bayard flow
Among my books.

Whatever face the world may wear—
If Lilian has no smile to spare,
For others let her beauty blow;
Such favours I can well forgo;
Perchance forget the frowning fair
Among my books.