A collector down on his luck opens with a sincere-sounding plea for divine help resisting temptation—he’s short on cash and knows his own weakness for rare books and prints. The first half feels like a humble request for a simpler, less acquisitive life. Then, with a sly pivot, the speaker drops the act: if he must be led into temptation, he asks God to make it a truly spectacular book. He dreams of a pristine, uncut volume full of engravings, one so obscure it’s missing from the standard reference, and—best of all—dirt cheap. The poem has a warm, gently self-mocking tone, capturing the guilty thrill of a bargain too good to pass up and the way a true bibliophile’s piety always bends toward the shelf.
The Bibliomaniac's Prayer — Summary
Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way That I may truths eternal seek; I need protecting care to-day,-- My purse is light, my flesh is weak. So banish from my erring heart All baleful appetites and hints Of Satan's fascinating art, Of first editions, and of prints. Direct me in some godly walk Which leads away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk May extra-illustrate my life. But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look, They 'll wail to know I got it cheap. Oh, let it such a volume be As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.