The Library | Page 2

the aching head,
Mild opiates here their sober influence
shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,
And view
composed 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