To him I owe each fair inftructive page,

Where Science tells me what her fons have known; Collects their choiceft works from every age,

And makes me wife with knowledge not my own.

Books rightly us'd may every state secure:
From fortune's evils may our peace defend;
May teach us how to fhun, or to endure,

The foe malignant, and the faithless friend.

Should rigid Want withdraw all outward aid,

Kind ftores of inward comfort they can bring; Should keen Disease life's tainted ftream invade, Sweet to the foul from them pure health may fpring.

Should both at once man's weakly frame infest,
Some letter'd charm may still relief supply;
'Gainst all events prepare his patient breast,

And make him quite refign'd to live, or die.

For though no words can time or fate restrain
No founds fupprefs the call of Nature's voice;
Though neither rhymes, nor fpells, can conquer pain,
Nor magic's felf make wretchedness our choice;

Yet reafon, while it forms the fubtile plan,

Some

purer source of pleasure to explore, Muft deem it vain for that poor pilgrim, man,

To think of refting 'till his journey's o'er;

Muft deem each fruitless toil, by heav'n design'd
To teach him where to look for real blifs;
Elfe why fhould heav'n excite the hope to find
What balk'd pursuit must here for ever miss?

Co

Thy fober influence o'er this darkling cell:
The defart waste and lonely plain,

Could ne'er confine thy peaceful reign;

Nor doft thou only love to dwell

'Mid the dark mansions of the vaulted dead:
For ftill at eve's ferenest hour,

All Nature owns thy foothing pow'r :
Oft haft thou deign'd with me to rove,
Beneath the calm fequefter'd grove;

Oft

Oft deign'd my secret steps to lead
Along the dewy pathlefs mead;

Or up the dusky lawn, to spy

The last faint gleamings of the twilight sky.
Then wilt thou ftill thy penfive vot'ry meet,
Oft as he calls thee to this gloomy feat:
For here, with many a folemn mystic rite,

Wert thou invok'd to confecrate the ground,
Ere thefe rude walls were rear'd remote from fight,
Or ere with mofs this fhaggy roof was crown'd.

Hail! bleffed parent of each purer thought,
That doth at once the heart exalt and mend!

Here wilt thou never fail to find

My vacant folitude inclin'd

Thy ferious leffons to attend.

For they I ween fhall be with goodness fraught,
Whether thou bid me meditate

On man, in untaught nature's ftate;
How far this life he ought to prize;

How far its tranfient scenes despise:
What heights his reafon may attain,
And where its proud attempts are vain :
What toils his virtue ought to brave,

For Hope's rewarding joys beyond the grave:

Or if in man redeem'd you bid me trace

Each wond'rous proof of heav'n's tranfcendent grace;
Then breathe some sparks of that celestial fire,

Which in the raptur'd feraph glows above,
Where fainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,
And harp their praises round the throne of love.

The trifling fons of Levity and Pride
Hence fhall thy aweful seriousness exclude;
Nor fhall loud Riot's thoughtless train
With frantic mirth this grott profane.
No foe to peace fhall here intrude.

For thou wilt kindly bid each found fubfide,
Save fuch as foothes the lift'ning fense,
And serves to aid thy influence:

Save where, foft-breathing o'er the plain,
Mild Zephyr waves the ruftling grain :
Or where some stream, from rocky source,
Slow trickles down its ceaseless course:

Or where the fea's imperfect roar

Comes gently murm'ring from the distant shore,
But most in Philomel, fweet bird of night,
In plaintive Philomel, is thy delight:
For fhe, or ftudious to prolong her grief,

Or oft to varv her exhauftlefs lay,

With

With frequent pause, from thee shall seek relief,
Nor close her strain, 'till dawns the noisy day.

Without thy aid, to happier tafteful art,
No deep instructive science could prevail :
For only where thou dost prefide,

Can wit's inventive pow'rs be tried :
And reafon's better task would fail,
Did not thy haunts the ferious theme impart.
The critic, that with plodding head
Toils o'er the learning of the dead;

The cloifter'd hermit that explores,

By midnight lamp, religion's ftores;

Each fage that marks, with thoughtful gaze,
The lunar orb, or planet's maze;

And every bard, that ftrays along

The fylvan fhade, intent on facred fong;

Shall all to thee those various praises give,

Which, through thy friendly aid, themselves receive: For though thou mayft from glory's feats retire,

Where loud applaufe proclaims the honour'd name;

Yet doth thy modeft wisdom still inspire

Each nobler work that fwells the voice of Fame.