Rizal frequently attended the theater, choosing especially the higher class dramas, occasionally went to a masked ball, played the lotteries in small amounts but regularly, and for the rest devoted most of his money to the purchase of books. The greater part of these were second-hand, but he bought several standard works in good editions, many with bindings de luxe. Among the books first purchased figure a Spanish translation of the "Lives of the Presidents of the United States," from Washington to Johnson, morocco bound, gilt-edged, and illustrated with steel engravings--certainly an expensive book; a "History of the English Revolution;" a comparison of the Romans and the Teutons, and several other books which indicated interest in the freer system of the Anglo-Saxons. Later, another "History of the Presidents," to Cleveland, was added to his library. The following lines, said to be addressed to his mother, were written about this time, evidently during an attack of homesickness: "You Ask Me for Verses" (Translated by Charles Derbyshire) You bid me now to strike the lyre, That mute and torn so long has lain; And yet I cannot wake the strain, Nor will the Muse one note inspire! Coldly it shakes in accents dire, As if my soul itself to wring, And when its sound seems but to fling A jest at its own low lament; So in sad isolation pent, My soul can neither feel nor sing. There was a time--ah, 'tis too true-- But that time long ago has past-- When upon me the Muse had cast Indulgent smile and friendship's due; But of that age now all too few The thoughts that with me yet will stay; As from the hours of festive play There linger on mysterious notes, And in our minds the memory floats Of minstrelsy and music gay. A plant I am, that scarcely grown, Was torn from out its Eastern bed, Where all around perfume is shed, And life but as a dream is known; The land that I can call my own, By me forgotten ne'er to be, Where trilling birds their song taught me, And cascades with their ceaseless roar, And all along the spreading shore The murmurs of the sounding sea. While yet in childhood's happy day, I learned upon its sun to smile, And in my breast there seemed the while Seething volcanic fires to play. A bard I was, and my wish alway To call upon the fleeting wind, With all the force of verse and mind: "Go forth, and spread around its fame, From zone to zone with glad acclaim, And earth to heaven together bind!" But it I left, and now no more-- Like a tree that is broken and sere-- My natal gods bring the echo clear Of songs that in past times they bore; Wide seas I cross'd to foreign shore, With hope of change and other fate; My folly was made clear too late, For in the place of good I sought The seas reveal'd unto me naught, But made death's specter on me wait.