but not to spend —
They only talk awhile, and there’s an end.” 
   “Come, you shall purchase books,” the Friend replied;
“You are bewilder’d, and you want a guide;
To me refer the choice, and you shall find
The light break in upon your stagnant mind!”
   The cooler Clerks exclaim’d, “In vain your art
To improve a cub without a head or heart;
Rustics, though coarse, and savages, though wild,
Our cares may render liberal and mild: 
But what, my friend, can flow from all these pains? 
There is no dealing with a lack of brains.” 
   “True I am hopeless to behold him man,
But let me make the booby what I can: 
Though the rude stone no polish will display,
Yet you may strip the rugged coat away.” 
   Stephen beheld his books—­“I love to know
How money goes—­now here is that to show: 
And now” he cried, “I shall be pleased to get
Beyond the Bible—­there I puzzle yet.” 
He spoke abash’d—­“Nay, nay!” the friend replied,
“You need not lay the good old book aside;
Antique and curious, I myself indeed
Read it at times, but as a man should read;. 
A fine old work it is, and I protest
I hate to hear it treated as a jest: 
The book has wisdom in it, if you look
Wisely upon it, as another book: 
For superstition (as our priests of sin
Are pleased to tell us) makes us blind within;
Of this hereafter—­we will now select
Some works to please you, others to direct;
Tales and romances shall your fancy feed,
And reasoners form your morals and your creed.” 
   The books were view’d, the price was fairly paid,
And Stephen read undaunted, undismay’d: 
But not till first he papered all the row,
And placed in order to enjoy the show: 
Next letter’d all the backs with care and speed,
Set them in ranks, and then began to read. 
   The love of Order—­I the thing receive
From reverend men, and I in part believe —
Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs
This love, but seldom in the world succeeds;
And yet with this some other love must be,
Ere I can fully to the fact agree;
Valour and study may by order gain,
By order sovereigns hold more steady reign;
Through all the tribes of nature order runs,
And rules around in systems and in suns: 
Still has the love of order found a place,
With all that’s low, degrading, mean, and base,
With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace —
In the cold miser, of all change afraid;
In pompous men in public seats obey’d;
In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones,
Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones: 
Order to these is armour and defence,
And love of method serves in lack of sense. 
   For rustic youth could I a list produce
Of Stephen’s books, how great might be the use! 
But evil fate was theirs—­survey’d, enjoy’d
Some happy months, and then by force destroyed: 
So will’d the Fates—­but these with