Taste, though misled, may yet some purpose gain, But Fashion guides a book-compelling train. Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, The travelled beau displayed his red-heeled shoe, Till Orford rose, and told of rhyming peers, Repeating _noble_ words to polished ears; Taught the gay crowd to prize a fluttering name, In trifling toiled, nor 'blushed to find it fame'. The lettered fop now takes a larger scope, With classic furniture, designed by Hope, (Hope whom upholsterers eye with mute despair, The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;) Now warmed by Orford, and by Granger schooled In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tooled, He pastes, from injured volumes snipped away, His _English Heads_, in chronicled array. Torn from their destined page (unworthy meed Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) Not Faithorne's stroke, nor Field's own types can save 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 shows, 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-passion drags them backward still: Even I, debarred of ease, and studious hours, Confess, 'mid anxious toil, its lurking powers. How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnished 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 dipped in Rossi's terse and classic style, His harmless tales awake a transient smile. Now Bouchet's motley stores my thoughts arrest, With wondrous reading, and with learnèd jest. Bouchet whose tomes a grateful line demand, The valued gift of Stanley's liberal hand. Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, And mix regrets with gentle Du Bellay; Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page, Where hardly Pasquin braves the Pontiff's rage.