What wild desires, what restless torments seize The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, If niggard Fortune cramp his generous mind, And Prudence quench the spark by heaven assigned! With wistful glance his aching eyes behold The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin, Displays, yet guards, the tempting charms within: So great Facardin viewed, as sages tell, Fair Crystalline immured in lucid cell. Not thus the few, by happier fortune graced, And blessed, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste, Who gather nobly, with judicious hand, The Muse's treasures from each lettered strand. For you the Monk illumed his pictured page, For you the press defies the spoils of age; Faustus for you infernal tortures bore, For you Erasmus starved on Adria's shore. The Folio-Aldus loads your happy shelves, And dapper Elzevirs, like fairy elves, Show 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 ravished sight: Laborde in splendid tablets shall explain Thy beauties, glorious though unhappy Spain! O hallowed name, the theme of future years, Embalmed in Patriot-blood, and England's tears, Be thine fresh honours from the tuneful tongue, By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung! But devious oft from every classic Muse, The keen Collector meaner paths will choose: And first the margin's breadth his soul employs, Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys. In vain might Homer roll the tide of song, Or Horace smile, or Tully charm the throng; If crossed 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 mass conceals its veins of lead. The glossy lines in polished 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. Or English books, neglected and forgot, Excite his wish in many a dusty lot: Whatever trash _Midwinter_ gave to-day, Or _Harper's_ rhyming sons, in paper gray, At every 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 displayed, He hovers eager o'er oblivion's shade. To snatch obscurest names from endless night, And give Cokain or Fletcher back to light. In red morocco dressed he loves to boast