A Poem in praise of The Hornbook

"Magni magna patrant, nos non nisi ludicra—— 12Podagra hæc otia fecit."

ail, ancient Book! most venerable Code! Learning's first cradle and its last abode! The huge unnumber'd volumes which we see By lazy plagiaries are stol'n from thee; Yet future times to thy sufficient store Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more. Thee will I sing in comely wainscot bound, And golden verge enclosing thee around, The faithful Horn before from age to age Preserving thy invaluable page; Behind thy patron saint in armour shines With sword and lance to guard thy sacred lines; Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies Transfix'd; his blood thy scarlet cover dies; Th' instructive handle is at the bottom fixt, Lest wrangling criticks should pervert the text. Or if to gingerbread thou shalt descend, And liq'rish learning to thy babes extend, Or sugar'd plane o'erspread with beaten gold Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold, Thou still shalt be my song.—Apollo's choir I scorn t' invoke; Cadmus! my verse inspire: 'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought Of all the learning which has since been taught, Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er shall know More than contain'd of old the Christ-cross row; What masters dictate or what doctors preach Wise natrons hence e'en to our children teach. But as the name of ev'ry plant and flow'r (So common that each peasant knows its pow'r) Physicians in mysterious cant express T' amuse the patient and enhance their fees, So from the letters of our native tongue Put in Greek scrawls a myst'ry too is sprung; Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made, And artful men strike out a gainful trade; Strange characters adorn the learned gate, And heedless youth catch at the shining bait, The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare, And Taus and Deltas make their mothers stare; Th' uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear, And what is uncommon never costs too dear; Yet in all tongues the Hornbook is the same, Taught by the Grecian master or the English dame. But how shall I thy endless virtues tell In which thou dost all other books excel? No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil, Nor crooked dogsears thy smooth corners spoil; In idle pages no errata stand To tell the blunders of the printer's hand; No fulsome dedication here is writ, Nor flatt'ring verse to praise the author's wit; The margin with no tedious notes is vext Nor various readings to confound the text; All parties in thy literal sense agree, Thou perfect centre of concordancy! Search we the records of an ancient date, Or read what modern histories relate, They all proclaim what wonders have been done By the plain letters taken as they run: "Too high the floods of passion us'd to roll, "And read the Roman youth's impatient soul; "His hasty anger furnish'd scenes of blood, "And frequent deaths of worthy men ensu'd; "In vain were all the weaker methods try'd, "None could suffice to stem the furious tide; "Thy sacred line he did but once repeat, "And laid the storm and cool'd the raging heat." Thy heav'nly notes like angels' musick cheer Departing souls and sooth the dying ear. An aged peasant on his latest bed Wish'd for a friend some godly book to read; The pious grandson thy known handle takes, And (eyes lift up) this sav'ry lecture makes. Great A he gravely read; th' important sound: The empty walls and hollow roof rebound: Th' expiring ancient rear'd his drooping head, And thank'd his stars that Hodge had learn'd to read. Great B, the yonker bauls; O heav'nly breath! "What ghostly comforts in the hour of death! "What hopes I feel!" Great C, pronounc'd the boy; The grandsire dies with ecstasy of joy. Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds: Of Essex Hundreds Fame gives this report, But Fame I ween says many things in sport: Scarce lives the man to whom thou 'rt quite unknown, Tho' few th' extent of thy vast empire own. Whatever wonders magick spells can do On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below, What words profound and dark wise Mah'met spoke When his old cow an angel's figure took, What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew, Or Horace sung fierce monsters to subdue, O mighty Book! are all contain'd in you: All human arts and ev'ry science meet Within the limits of thy single sheet: From thy vast root all Learning's branches grow, And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow. And lo! while thus thy wonders I indite Inspir'd I feel the pow'r of which I write; The gentler gout his former rage forgets, Less frequent now and less severe the fits; Loose grow the chains which bound my useless feet, Stiffness and pain from ev'ry joint retreat, Surprising strength comes ev'ry moment on; I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run. Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop, And at thy handle hang my crutches up.