“The most thankless of gods you must surelyhave thought me, For this is the forty-fourth copy you’ve brought me, I have given them away, or at least I have tried, But I’ve forty-two left, standing all side by side (The man who accepted that one copy died),-- From one end of a shelf to the other they reach ‘With the author’s respects’ neatly written in each. The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, When he hears of that order the British Museum Has sent for one set of what books were first printed In America, little or big,--for ’tis hinted That this is the first truly tangible hope he Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. I’ve thought very often ’twould be a good thing In all public collections of books, if a wing Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry lands, Marked _Literature suited to desolate islands_, And filled with such books as could never ber ead Save by readers of proofs, forced to do it for bread,-- Such books as one’s wrecked on in small countryt averns, Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns, Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented, As the climax of woe, would to Job have presented, Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe; And since the philanthropists just now are banging And gibbeting all who’re in favor of hanging (Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter, And that vital religion would dull and grow callous, Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the gallows),-- And folks are beginning to think it looks odd, To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God; And that He who esteems the Virginia reel A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery Than crushing His African children with slavery,-- Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion Are mounted for hell on the Devil’s own pillion, Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, Approaches the heart through the door of the toes,-- That He, I was saying, whose judgments are stored For such as take steps in despite of His word, Should look with delight on the agonized prancing Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his dancing, While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the Psalter About offering to God on his favorite halter, And, when the legs droop from their twitching divergence, Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the corpse to the surgeons;-- Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you all To a criminal code both humane and effectual;-- I propose to shut up every doer of wrong With these desperate books, for such term, short or long, As by statute in such cases made and provided, Shall be by your wise legislators decided: