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THE

LIBRARY:

A POEM.

ARGUMENT.

Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a lighter kind of Distress for its own.-They are productive of other Advantages:-An Author's hope of being known in distant Times.-Arrangement of the Library.-Size and Form of the Volumes.-The antient Folio, clasped and chained.-Fashion prevalent even in this Place. The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c.-Subjects of the different Classes.-Divinity. Controversy.-The Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes.-Sceptical Authors.Reason too much rejected by the former Converts; exclusively relied upon by the latter.-Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to Moral Subjects.

-Books of Medicine: Their Variety, Variance, and proneness to System: The Evil of this, and the Difficulty it causes :-) -Farewell to this Study.- -Law:The increasing Number of its Volumes.-Supposed happy State of Man without Laws.-Progress of Society.

-Historians; their Subjects.Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic-Antient Romances.-The Captive Heroine.-Happiness in the perusal of such Books: why. Criticism.-Apprehensions of the Author: Removed by the appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject.

THE

LIBRARY.

WHEN the sad Soul, by care and grief opprest,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain, for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom, and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away, and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain,

Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain;
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream;
For when the soul is labouring in despair,

In vain the body breathes a purer air:

No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas,
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides
The ghost of every former danger glides.

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Thus in the calms of life, we only see
A steadier image of our misery;

But lively gales, and gently-clouded skies,
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;
And busy thoughts, and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,
Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief..

Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart;
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial cares;

Those lenient cares, which, with our own combin'd,By mixt sensations ease th' afflicted mind,

And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind;

A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure
Without regret, nor ev'n demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This, Books can do ;

nor this alone; they give

New views to life, and teach us how to live;

They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise,
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:
Their aid they yield to all; they never shun

The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone :

Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen, from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But shew to subjects, what they shew to kings.

Come, child of care; to make thy soul serene,
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene!
Survey the dome, and as the doors unfold,
The soul's best cure in all her cares, behold!
Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,
And mental physic the diseas'd in mind;

See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage,
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees controul
The chronic habits of the sickly soul;

And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here, their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul, man's busy scenes exclude,
And view compos'd this silent multitude :-
Silent they are, but, though depriv'd of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;
Here all that live no more; preserv'd 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.

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