  [“The masterpieces of prose remain in the seclusion of the library. Occasionally quoted, they are rarely read.”—Literary Paper.] UPON the shelves in solemn state, Resplendent with morocco’s lustre, Dull and disconsolate they wait The flip of pert Belinda’s duster; For long ago they learned the fact That o’er their lore no bookworm muses, These tomes which half the world collect, And no one in the world peruses. Resigned to dignified dry-rot, Unscathed by dog’s-ears detrimental, Iconoclastic hands shall not Defile their tooling ornamental; Yet can they feel with pensive pride, Whilst indoors thus their charms are flouted, By countless worshippers outside Their claims to fame are proudly shouted. Bowed with the learning of the years, Blanched with the wisdom of the ages, These greybeards in their lofty tiers Seem like an Upper House of sages, An Upper House too proud to bend To popularity’s infliction, Leaving the meed to those who tend The lowly common-lands of Fiction. Walton, great gun with hooks and flies, Has grown too grave to care for angling, Though Mandeville before his eyes Some excellent fish tales is dangling. Burton, who’s tÊte-À-tÊte with Pepys, Muses with chastened melancholy, While flippant Pepys betakes his steps To paths of Restoration folly. Rabelais jostles Verulam; Sir Thomas Browne at Steele looks daggers; Unmarred is Matchless Marlowe’s calm As Mermaid Ben against him staggers; Boccaccio pours in Chaucer’s ears Some racy after-dinner stories; Gibbon and Grote unite in tears O’er Roman grandeurs, Grecian glories. Thus while they shun the world’s delights, Unmoved by mortal contemplation, They pass laborious days and nights Easing their woes by conversation. In patience they possess their souls, These hermits to decay devoted, Knowing, while Lethe o’er them rolls, That they’re occasionally quoted. |
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