Strangers no wranglers in these figures see,
Nor give they worship to a high degree;
Unlike the prophet’s is the scholar’s case,
His honour all is in his dwelling-place: 
And there such honours are familiar things;
What is a monarch in a crowd of kings? 
Like other sovereigns he’s by forms address’d,
By statutes governed and with rules oppress’d. 
   When all these forms and duties die away,
And the day passes like the former day,
Then of exterior things at once bereft,
He’s to himself and one attendant left;
Nay, John too goes; nor aught of service more
Remains for him; he gladly quits the door,
And, as he whistles to the college-gate,
He kindly pities his poor master’s fate. 
   Books cannot always please, however good;
Minds are not ever craving for their food;
But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare
For cares to-morrow that were this day’s care: 
For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past,
And formal feasts that will for ever last. 
   “But then from Study will no comforts rise?” —
Yes! such as studious minds alone can prize;
Comforts, yea!—­joys ineffable they find,
Who seek the prouder pleasures of the mind: 
The soul, collected in those happy hours,
Then makes her efforts, then enjoys her powers;
And in those seasons feels herself repaid,
For labours past and honours long delay’d. 
   No! ’tis not worldly gain, although by chance
The sons of learning may to wealth advance;
Nor station high, though in some favouring hour
The sons of learning may arrive at power;
Nor is it glory, though the public voice
Of honest praise will make the heart rejoice: 
But ’tis the mind’s own feelings give tho joy,
Pleasures she gathers in her own employ —
Pleasures that gain or praise cannot bestow,
Yet can dilate and raise them when they flow. 
   For this the Poet looks thy world around,
Where form and life and reasoning man are found;
He loves the mind, in all its modes, to trace,
And all the manners of the changing race;
Silent he walks the road of life along,
And views the aims of its tumultuous throng: 
He finds what shapes the Proteus-passions take,
And what strange waste of life and joy they make,
And loves to show them in their varied ways,
With honest blame or with unflattering praise: 
’Tis good to know, ’tis pleasant to impart,
These turns and movements of the human heart: 
The stronger features of the soul to paint,
And make distinct the latent and the faint;
man as he is, to place in all men’s view,
Yet none with rancour, none with scorn pursue: 
Nor be it ever of my Portraits told —
“Here the strong lines of malice we behold.”
         ---------------------
   This let me hope, that when in public view
I bring my Pictures, men may feel them true: 
“This is a likeness,” may they all declare,