Hear him! he whistles through his work, or stops But to admire his labours and his crops. To-day as every former day he fares, And for the morrow has nor doubts nor cares; Pious and cheerful, proud when he can please— Judge if Joe Tompkin wants such things as these. “Come, let us forward!” and she walk’d in haste To a large room, itself a work of taste, But chiefly valued for the works that drew 550 The eyes of Peter—this indeed was new, Was most imposing—Books of every kind Were there disposed, the food for every mind. With joy perplex’d, round cast he wondering eyes, Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise. Above, beneath, around, on every side, Of every form and size were Books descried; Like Bishop Hatto, when the rats drew near, And war’s new dangers waked his guilty fear, When thousands came beside, behind, before, 560 And up and down came on ten thousand more, A tail’d and whisker’d army, each with claws As sharp as needles, and with teeth like saws— So fill’d with awe, and wonder in his looks, Stood Peter ‘midst this multitude of Books; But guiltless he and fearless; yet he sigh’d To think what treasures were to him denied. But wonder ceases on continued view; And the Boy sharp for close inspection grew. Prints on the table he at first survey’d, 570 Then to the Books his full attention paid. At first, from tome to tome, as fancy led, He view’d the binding, and the titles read; Lost in delight, and with his freedom pleased, Then three huge folios from their shelf he seized; Fixing on one, with prints of every race, Of beast and bird most rare in every place— Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey Are giants too—a wild ox once a day; Here the fierce tiger, and the desert’s kings, 580 And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings— Most rare and strange; a second volume told Of battles dire, and dreadful to behold, On sea or land, and fleets dispersed in storms; A third has all creative fancy forms— Hydra and dire chimera, deserts rude, And ruins grand, enriching solitude: Whatever was, or was supposed to be, Saw Peter here, and still desired to see. Again he look’d, but happier had he been, 590 That Book of Wonders he had never seen; For there were tales of men of wicked mind, And how the Foe of Man deludes mankind. Magic and murder every leaf bespread— } Enchanted halls, and chambers of the dead, } And ghosts that haunt the scenes where once the victims bled. } Just at this time, when Peter’s heart began To admit the fear that shames the valiant man, He paused—but why? “Here’s one my guard to be; } When thus protected, none can trouble me.”— 600} Then rising look’d he round, and lo! alone was he. } Three ponderous doors, with locks of shining brass, Seem’d to invite the trembling Boy to pass; But fear forbad, till fear itself supplied