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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DOMESTIC PHILOSOPHER, by                    
First Line: Huge glaring maps the walls surround
Last Line: "the model of a parish horse, / that all the parish ride"
Alternate Author Name(s): A Lady
Subject(s): Booksellers; Bookstores


HUGE glaring maps the walls surround,
His furniture and taste;
Nor less the labouring shelves abound
With books in order placed:

Like bold militia troops, who scorn
To break their rank or file;
Yet, coward-like, their backs they turn,
Like ******** on Belleisle.

Here ponderous folios grace the board,
There sturdy quartos stand;
And squat octavos, at his word,
Salute the master's hand.

The minor twelves (subaltern tribes!)
Possess the loftier line:
While with the name, that each inscribes,
The lettered labels shine.

In both he takes no small delight:
While, o'er his native soil,
From north to south he wings his flight,
Without expence or toil;

But chief he gluts his ravished eyes,
Which o'er his volumes gaze:
Their garb he views with fond surprise,
Their numbers with amaze!

'well -- what a sight!', the sage exclaims;
'My hand the work has done:
Here's books! here's order! and here's names!
And these -- are all my own!'

Now throngs of visitants attend,
And at the prospect stare;
Acquaintance here and strangers blend:
You'd take it for a fair,

Or public sale -- where various books,
And various pamphlets vie;
Address your pocket or your looks,
As courting you to buy.

But nothing less -- they're not for bread:
They're bought to lend abroad.
Syphon would fain have science spread,
For science -- is his God!

'Come, sir, pray take your choice, and you,
Oblige me if you can:
Here's Latin, Greek, and Hebrew too,
If you're a learned man.

'But you, ma'am, here's an English one;
And, if you have a friend
That you would serve -- 'tis easy done:
I bought 'em all to lend.

'It is my talent to dispense
Such valuable things:
I value manners more than sense,
And honour more than kings.

'Ay -- there now -- that's the life of one,
You have it in your hand;
That book's incomparably done:
'Tis Louis, sir, le Grand!

'I s'pose you know by whom 'tis wrote:
'Twas written by Voltaire,
A lively head as ever thought,
Were verity his care.

'However, he's a charming hand;
There's nothing he can't do:
His lies so clean, and at command,
I scarce can wish 'em true.

'Well -- pray -- will no one help themselves
To what stands here in view;
Here's folios, quartos, eights, and twelves:
Come, pray now, ladies, do.

'You mind -- I've nothing for my pains,
The cost is all my own;
Your kind acceptance is my gains,
And your applause my crown.'

Thus Syphon wastes the livelong day,
How learnedly employed!
While the sly moments steal away,
Unfelt and unenjoyed.

But this is Syphon's constant course,
His calling and his pride:
The model of a parish horse,
That all the parish ride!





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