Ballads of Books Part 6

Must I be torn from hence and thrown With _frontispiece_ and _colophon_!

With vagrant _E_'s, and _I_'s and _O_'s, The spoil of plunder'd _Folios_!

With sc.r.a.ps and snippets that to Me Are naught but _kitchen company_!

Nay, rather, Friend, this favor grant me; Tear me at once; _but don't transplant me_.

CHELTENHAM, _Sept. 31, 1792._

OVER THE THRESHOLD OF MY LIBRARY.

_Quoted from the supplement of Dibdin's_ HENRY DRURY. _'Bibliomania,' where the original Latin lines may be found._

From mouldering Abbey's dark Scriptorium brought, See vellum tomes by Monkish labor wrought; Nor yet the comma born, Papyri see, And uncial letters' wizard grammary: View my _fifteeners_ in their ragged line; What ink! What linen! Only known long syne-- Entering where Aldus might have fixed his throne, Or Harry Stephens coveted his own.

THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOKWORM.

MAURICE F. EGAN. _From 'Songs and Sonnets.' 1885._

I read, O friend, no pages of old lore, Which I loved well, and yet the flying days, That softly pa.s.sed as wind through green spring ways And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore, Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more, Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays, Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze, Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore.

I read a book to which old books are new, And new books old. A living book is mine-- In age, three years: in it I read no lies-- In it to myriad truths I find the clew-- A tender, little child: but I divine Thoughts high as Dante's in its clear blue eyes.

EPIGRAM.

EVENUS (the grammarian). _Rendered into English by A. Lang in the 'Library.' 1881._

Pest of the Muses, devourer of pages, in crannies hat lurkest, Fruits of the Muses to taint, labor of learning to spoil; Wherefore, O black-fleshed worm! wert thou born for the evil thou workest?

Wherefore thine own foul form shap'st thou with envious toil?

THE BIBLIOMANIA.

Hic, inquis, veto quisquam fuit oletum.

Pinge duos angues.

Pers. _Sat._ i. l. 108.

JOHN FERRIAR. "_An Epistle to Richard Heber, Esq."

Manchester, April, 1809_.

What wild desires, what restless torments seize The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, If n.i.g.g.ard Fortune cramp his gen'rous mind And Prudence quench the Spark by heaven a.s.sign'd!

With wistful glance his aching eyes behold The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, Where the tall Book-case, with part.i.tion thin, Displays, yet guards the tempting charms within: So great Facardin view'd, as sages[2] tell, Fair Crystalline immur'd in lucid cell.

Not thus the few, by happier fortune grac'd, And blest, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste, Who gather n.o.bly, with judicious hand, The Muse's treasures from each letter'd strand.

For you the Monk illum'd his pictur'd page, For you the press defies the Spoils of age; FAUSTUS for you infernal tortures bore, For you ERASMUS[3] starv'd on Adria's sh.o.r.e.

The FOLIO-ALDUS loads your happy Shelves, And dapper ELZEVIRS, like fairy elves, Shew their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves: In slender type the GIOLITOS shine, And bold BODONI stamps his Roman line.

For you the LOUVRE opes its regal doors, And either DIDOT lends his brilliant stores: With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright, IBARRA'S Quixote charms your ravish'd sight: LABORDE in splendid tablets shall explain Thy beauties, glorious, tho' unhappy SPAIN!

O, hallowed name, the theme of future years, Embalm'd in Patriot-blood, and England's tears, Be thine fresh honors from the tuneful tongue, By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung!

But devious oft' from ev'ry cla.s.sic Muse, The keen Collector meaner paths will choose: And first the Margin's breadth his soul employs, Pure, snowy, broad, the type of n.o.bler joys.

In vain might HOMER roll the tide of song, Or HORACE smile, or TULLY charm the throng; If crost by Pallas' ire, the trenchant blade Or too oblique, or near, the edge invade, The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye, "No Margin!" turns in haste, and scorns to buy.

He turns where PYBUS rears his Atlas-head, Or MADOC'S ma.s.s conceals its veins of lead.

The glossy lines in polish'd order stand, While the vast margin spreads on either hand, Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep, Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep.[4]

Or English books, neglected and forgot, Excite his wish in many a dusty lot: Whatever trash _Midwinter_ gave to day, Or _Harper's_ rhiming sons, in paper gray, At ev'ry auction, bent on fresh supplies, He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes: Where'er the slim Italics mark the page, _Curious and rare_ his ardent mind engage.

Unlike the Swans, in Tuscan Song display'd, He hovers eager o'er Oblivion's Shade, To s.n.a.t.c.h obscurest names from endless night, And give c.o.kAIN or FLETCHER[5] back to light.

In red morocco drest he loves to boast The b.l.o.o.d.y murder, or the yelling ghost; Or dismal ballads, sung to crouds of old, Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold.

Yet to th' unhonor'd dead be Satire just; Some flow'rs[6] "smell sweet and blossom in their dust."

'Tis thus ev'n SHIRLEY boasts a golden line, And LOVELACE strikes, by fits, a note divine.

Th' unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play, And deepen'd gloom succeeds, in place of day.

But human bliss still meets some envious storm; He droops to view his PAYNTERS' mangled form: Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repines O'er the frail relics of her Attic Shrines!

O for that power, for which Magicians vye.

To look through earth, and secret h.o.a.rds descry!

I'd spurn such gems as Marinel[7] beheld, And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held, Might I divine in what mysterious gloom The rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb: Beneath what mould'ring tower, or waste champain, Is hid MENANDER, sweetest of the train: Where rests ANTIMACHUS' forgotten lyre, Where gentle SAPPHO'S still seductive fire; Or he,[8] whom chief the laughing Muses own, Yet skill'd with softest accents to bemoan Sweet Philomel[9] in strains so like her own.

The menial train has prov'd the Scourge of wit, Ev'n OMAR burnt less Science than the spit.

Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage, But ev'ry feast demands some fated page.

Ye Towers of Julius,[10] ye alone remain Of all the piles that saw our nation's stain, When HARRY'S sway opprest the groaning realm, And l.u.s.t and Rapine seiz'd the wav'ring helm.

Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes, Their saintly statues and their storied panes; Then from the chest, with ancient art embost, The Penman's pious scrolls were rudely tost; Then richest ma.n.u.scripts, profusely spread, The brawny Churls' devouring Oven fed: And thence Collectors date the heav'nly ire That wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire.[11]

Taste, tho' misled, may yet some purpose gain, But Fashion guides a book-compelling train.[12]

Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, The travell'd beau display'd his red-heel'd shoe, Till ORFORD rose, and told of rhiming Peers, Repeating _n.o.ble_ words to polish'd ears;[13]

Taught the gay croud to prize a fluttering name, In trifling toil'd, nor "blush'd to find it fame."

The letter'd fop, now takes a larger scope, With cla.s.sic furniture, design'd by HOPE, (HOPE whom Upholst'rers eye with mute despair, The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;) Now warm'd by ORFORD, and by GRANGER school'd, In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tool'd, He pastes, from injur'd volumes snipt away, His _English Heads_, in chronicled array.

Torn from their destin'd page (unworthy meed Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) Not FAITHORNE'S stroke, nor FIELD'S own types can save [14] The gallant Veres, and one-eyed OGLE brave.

Indignant readers seek the image fled, And curse the busy fool, who _wants a head_.

Proudly he shews, with many a smile elate, The scrambling subjects of the _private plate_; While Time their actions and their names bereaves, They grin for ever in the guarded leaves.

Like Poets, born, in vain Collectors strive To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive.

Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will, The Tyrant-pa.s.sion drags them backward still: Ev'n I, debarr'd of ease, and studious hours, Confess, mid' anxious toil, its lurking pow'rs.

How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold!

The Eye skims restless, like the roving bee, O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee, While sweet as Springs, new-bubbling from the stone, Glides through the breast some pleasing theme unknown.

Now dipt in ROSSI'S[15] terse and cla.s.sic style, His harmless tales awake a transient smile.

Now BOUCHET'S motley stores my thoughts arrest, With wond'rous reading, and with learned jest.

Bouchet[16] whose tomes a grateful line demand, The valued gift of STANLEY'S lib'ral hand.

Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, And mix regrets with gentle DU BELLAY;[17]