The Library | Page 2

this silent multitude:-?Silent they are--but though deprived of sound,?Here all the living languages abound;?Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,?In tombs that open to the curious eye.
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind?To stamp a lasting image of the mind!?Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,?Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring ;?But Man alone has skill and power to send?The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;?'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise?Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
In sweet repose, when Labour's children sleep,?When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep,?When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast,?And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest,?Why then denies the studious man to share?Man's common good, who feels his common care?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly?Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;?That after-ages may repeat his praise,?And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days.?Delightful prospect! when we leave behind?A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind!?Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day,?Shall all our labour, all our care repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,?Not all the children of a vigorous mind;?But where the wisest should alone preside,?The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;?Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show?The poor and troubled source from which they flow;?Where most he triumphs we his wants perceive,?And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.?But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves?This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:-?Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find;?The curious here to feed a craving mind;?Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;?And here the poet meets his favouring Muse.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread;?These are the lasting mansions of the dead:-?"The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply;?"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!"?Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,?"And laugh at all the little strife of time."
Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,?Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove;?And ye the common people of these skies,?A humbler crowd of nameless deities;?Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind?Through History's mazes, and the turnings find;?Or, whether led by Science, ye retire,?Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;?Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,?And crowns your placid brows with living flowers;?Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show?The noblest road to happiness below;?Or men and manners prompt the easy page?To mark the flying follies of the age:?Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;?Inform the head and rectify the heart.?Lo, all in silence, all in order stand,?And mighty folios first, a lordly band ;?Then quartos their well-order'd ranks maintain,?And light octavos fill a spacious plain:?See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,?A humbler band of duodecimos;?While undistinguish'd trifles swell the scene,?The last new play and fritter'd magazine.?Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,?In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;?Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,?Are much admired, and are but little read:?The commons next, a middle rank, are found;?Professions fruitful pour their offspring round;?Reasoners and wits are next their place allowed,?And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.
First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;?For these the manners, nay the mind, express:?That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;?Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;?The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age;?The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;?On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,?Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold;?These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,?A painful candidate for lasting fame:?No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk?In the deep bosom of that weighty work;?No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,?Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.
Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,?And slumber out their immortality:?They HAD their day, when, after after all his toil,?His morning study, and his midnight oil,?At length an author's ONE great work appeared,?By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd:?Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;?Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;?Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift,?And ladies read the work they could not lift.?Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,?Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;?From crowds and courts to "Wisdom's seat she goes?And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.?For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient mode?Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode.
Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain; {2}?Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;?No readers now invade their still retreat,?None try to steal them from their parent-seat;?Like ancient beauties, they may now discard?Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard.
Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,?And roll'd, o'er labour'd works, th' attentive eye:?Page after page the much-enduring men?Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen:?Till, every former note and comment known,?They