Hic, inquis, Veto quisquam faxit Oletum.
THE BIBLIOMANIA, AN EPISTLE,
RICHARD HEBER, Esq.
WHAT wild desires, what restless torments seize
The hapless man, who feels the book-disease,
If niggard Fortune cramp his gen'rous mind,
And Prudence quench the Spark by heaven assign'd!
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 view'd, as sages* 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 nobly, 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+ starv'd on Adria's shore.
* Sages. Count Hamilton, in the Quatre Facardins, and Mr. M. Lewis, in his Tales of Romance.
+ See the Opulentia Sordida, in his Colloquies, where he complains so feelingly of the spare Venetian diet. VOL. II.
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.
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 honours from the tuneful tongue,
By Isis' streams which mourning Zion sung!
But devious oft' from ev'ry 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 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 mass 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.*
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 grey.
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 snatch obscurest names from endless night,
And give COKAIN OF FLETCHER† back to light.
In red morocco drest he loves to boast
The bloody 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' unhonour'd dead be Satire just;
* It may be said that Quintilian recommends margins; but it is with a view to their being occasionally occupied : Debet vacare etiam locus, in quo potentur quæ scribentibus solent extra ordinem, id est ex aliis quam qui sunt in manibus loci, occurrere. Irrumpunt enim optimi nonnunquam Sensus, quos neque inserere oportet, neque differre tutum est.
Instit. Lib. x. C. 3. He was therefore no Margin-man, in the modern Sense. + Fletcher. A translator of Martial. A very bad Poet, but exceedingly scarce.
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