(E D . A NDREW Lang .)

On the Fly-leaf.

C URSÈD be he who robs me of this book,
With all his race. Let it be desolate
And brought a-low if so be it was great,
For that he, wickedly, impiously took
That was another's. Let great serpents look
At him, a-sleeping, with dull eyes of Hate;
And let him, waking, be compelled of Fate
To cast his corse within the nearest brook.
Here is a book made after mine own heart —
Good print, good tale, good picture and good sense,
Good learning and good labour of old days.
Book I thou and I henceforth must nowise part.
Together we will tread Life's journey hence,
And only part at old Death's waterways.