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. }
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 deceas’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 Cronic 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.
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 nurst through many an anxious day,
Shall all our Labour, all our Cares 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 Griev’d, 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 J span class="i0">The tedious Hours and ne’er indulg’d in Song;
Ye first Seducers of my easy Heart,
Who promis’d Knowledge, ye could not impart;
Ye dull Deluders, Truth’s destructive Foes;
Ye Sons of Fiction, clad in stupid Prose;
Ye treacherous Leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,
Light up false Fires and send us far about;—
Still may yon Spider round your Pages spin,
Subtle and slow, her emblematic Gin!
Buried in Dust and lost in Silence, dwell,
Most potent, grave, and reverend Friends—Farewell!

Near these, and where the setting Sun displays,
Through the dim Window, his departing Rays,
And gilds yon Columns, there on either side,
The huge Abridgements of the Law abide;
Fruitful as Vice the dread Correctors stand,
And spread their guardian Terrors round the Land;
Yet, as the best that human Care can do,
Is mixt with Error, oft with Evil too;
Skill’d in Deceit, and practis’d to evade,
Knaves stand secure, for whom these Laws were made:
And Justice vainly each expedient tries,
While Art eludes it, or while Power defies.
“Ah! happy Age,” the youthful Poet sings,
“When the free Nations knew not Laws nor Kings;
When all were blest to share a common Store,
And none were proud of Wealth, for none were poor;
No Wars, nor Tumults vex’d each still Domain,
No thirst of Empire, no desire of Gain;
No proud Great Man, nor one who would be great,
Drove modest Merit from its proper State;
Nor into distant Climes would Avarice roam,
To fetch Delights for Luxury at Home.
Bound by no ties which kept the Soul in awe,
They dwelt at liberty, and Love was Law!”
“Mistaken Youth! each Nation first was rude,
Each Man a cheerless Son of Solitude,
To whom no Joys of Social life were known,
None felt a Care that was not all his own;
Or in some languid Clime his abject Soul
Bow’d to a little Tyrant’s stern controul;
A Slave, with Slaves his Monarch’s Throne he rais’d,
And in rude Song his ruder Idol prais’d;
The meaner Cares of Life were all he knew,
Bounded his Pleasures, and his Wishes few:
But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,
And Science waken’d from her long Repose;
When Commerce, rising from the Red of Ease,
Ran round the Land and pointed to the Seas;
When Emulation, born with jealous Eye,
And Avarice, lent their Spurs to industry;
Then one by one the numerous Laws were made,
Those to controul, and these to succour Trade;
To curb the Insolence of rude Command,
To snatch the Victim from the Usurer’s hand;
To awe the Bold, to yield the Wrong’d redress,
And feed the Poor with Luxury’s excess.”
Like some vast Flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,
His Nature leads ungovern’d Man along;
Like mighty Bulwarks made to stem that Tide,
The Laws are form’d and plac’d on ev’ry side;
Whene’er it breaks the Bounds by these decreed,
New Statutes rise, and stronger Laws succeed;
More and more gentle grows the dying Stream,
More and more strong the rising Bulwarks seem;
Till, like a Miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;
The Basis sinks, the ample Piles decay,
The stately Fabric shakes and falls away;
PrimÆval Want and Ignorance come on,
But Freedom, that exalts the Savage State, is gone.

Next, History ranks;—there full in front she lies,
And every Nation her dread Tale supplies;
Yet History has her Doubts, and every Age
With sceptic Queries marks the passing Page;
Records of old nor later Date are clear,
Too distant those and these are plac’d too near;
There Time conceals the Objects from our view,
Here our own Passions and a Writer’s too:
Yet in these Volumes see how States arose!
Guarded by Virtue from surrounding Foes;
Their Virtue lost, and of their Triumphs vain,
Lo! how they sunk to Slavery again!
Satiate with Power, of Fame and Wealth possest,
A Nation grows too glorious to be blest;
Conspicuous made, she stands the Mark of all,
And Foes join Foes to triumph in her Fall.
Thus speaks the Page that paints Ambition’s Race,
The Monarch’s Pride, his Glory, his Disgrace;
The headlong Course, that madd’ning Heroes run,
How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;
How Slaves, turn’d Tyrants, offer Crowns to sale,
And each fall’n Nation’s melancholy Tale.

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,
Old pious Tracts, and Bibles bound in Wood;
There, such the Taste of our degenerate Age,
Stand the profane Delusions of the Stage:
Yet Virtue owns the Tragic Muse a Friend,
Fable her Means, Morality her End;
For this she rules all Passions in their turns,
And now the Bosom bleeds, and now it burns;
Pity with weeping Eye surveys her Bowl,
Her Anger swells, her Terror chills the Soul;
She makes the Vile to Virtue yield Applause,
And own her Sceptre while they break her Laws;
For Vice in others is abhorr’d of all,
And Villains triumph when the Worthless fall.

Not thus her Sister Comedy prevails,
Who shoots at Folly, for her Arrow fails
Folly, by Dulness arm’d, eludes the Wound,
And harmless sees the feather’d Shafts rebound;
Unhurt she stands, applauds the Archer’s Skill,
Laughs at her Malice, and is Folly still.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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