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 grieved, 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 show to subjects what they show 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 diseased 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 control
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 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,