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