Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain ;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain :

When the sick heart, by no design employ'd,
Throbs o'er the past, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd,
In former pleasures finding no relief,

And pain'd anew in every former grief.
Can friends console us when our cares distress,
Smile on our woes, and make misfortunes less?
Alas! like winter'd leaves, they fall away,
Or more disgrace our prospects by delay;
The genial warmth, the fostering sap is past,
That kept them faithful, and that held them fast.
Where shall we fly?- to yonder still retreat,
The haunt of Genius and the Muses' seat,
Where all our griefs in others' strains rehearse,
Speak with old Time, and with the dead converse;
Till Fancy, far in distant regions flown,
Adopts a thousand schemes, and quits her own;
Skims every scene, and plans with each design,
Towers in each thought, and lives in every line;
From clime to clime with rapid motion flies,
Weeps without woe, and without sorrow sighs;
To all things yielding, and by all things sway'd,
To all obedient, and by all obey'd;
The source of pleasures, noble and refined,
And the great empress of the Poet's mind.
Here led by thee, fair Fancy, I behold
The mighty heroes, and the bards of old!
For here the Muses sacred vigils keep,
And all the busy cares of being sleep;
No monarch covets war, nor dreams of fame,
No subject bleeds to raise his tyrant's name,

No proud great man, or man that would be great,
Drives modest merit from its proper state,
Nor rapine reaps the good by labour sown,
Nor envy blasts a laurel, but her own.

Yet Contemplation, silent goddess, here,
In her vast eye, makes all mankind appear,
All Nature's treasures, all the stores of Art,
That fire the fancy, or engage the heart,
The world's vast views, the fancy's wild domain,

And all the motley objects of the brain :

Here mountains hurl'd on mountains proudly rise,
Far, far o'er Nature's dull realities;

Eternal verdure decks a sacred clime,

Eternal spring for ever blooms in rhyme,

Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream;

And heroes honour'd for imputed deeds,
And saints adored for visionary creeds,
Legends and tales, and solitude and sighs,
Poor doating dreams, and miserable lies,
The empty bubbles of a pensive mind,
And Spleen's sad effort to debase mankind.
Here Wonder gapes at Story's dreadful page,
And Valour mounts by true poetic rage,
And Pity weeps to hear the mourning maid,
And Envy saddens at the praise convey'd.
Devotion kindles at the pious strain,

And mocks the madness of the fool's disdain :
Here gentle Delicacy turns her eye
From the loose page, and blushes her reply,
Alone, unheeded, calls her soul to arms,
Fears every thought, and flies from all alarms.
Pale Study here, to one great point resign'd;
Derides the various follies of mankind;
As distant objects sees their several cares,
And with his own their trifling work compares;
But still forgets like him men take their view,
And near their own, his works are trifling too:-

So suns and planets scarcely fill the eye

When earth's poor hills and man's poor huts are nigh;

But, were the eye in airy regions tost,

The world would lessen, and her hills be lost;
And were the mighty orbs above us known,
No world would seem so trifling as our own.
Here looking back, the wond'ring soul surveys
The sacred relics of departed days,
Where grace, and truth, and excellence reside,
To claim our praise, and mortify our pride;
Favour'd by fate, our mighty fathers found
The virgin Muse, with every beauty crown'd:
They woo'd and won; and, banish'd their embrace,
She comes a harlot to their feebler race:

Deck'd in false taste, with gaudy shows of art
She charms the eye, but touches not the heart;
By thousands courted, but by few caress'd,
False when pursued, and fatal when possess'd.

From hence we rove, with Fancy for our guide,
O'er this wide world, and other worlds more wide,

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;

Where other suns their vital power display,
And round revolving planets dart the day;
Where comets blaze, by mortals unsurvey'd,
And stray where Galileo never stray'd;

Where God himself conducts each vast machine,
Uncensured by mankind, because unseen.

Here, too, we trace the varied scenes of life,
The tyrant husband, the retorting wife,

The hero fearful to appear afraid,

The thoughts of the deliberating maid;

The snares for virtue, and the turns of fate,

The lie of trade, and madness of debate;

Here force deals death around, while fools applaud,
And caution watches o'er the lips of fraud;
Whate'er the world can show, here scorn derides,
And here suspicion whispers what it hides.
The secret thought, the counsel of the breast,
The coming news, and the expected jest . .
High panegyric, in exalted style,

That smiles for ever, and provokes a smile,
And Satire, with her fav'rite handmaids by-
Here loud abuse, there simpering irony.
All now display'd, without a mask are known,
And every vice in nature, but our own.

....

Yet Pleasure too, and Virtue, still more fair,
To this blest seat with mutual speed repair;
The social sweets in life's securer road,
Its bliss unenvied, its substantial good,
The happy thought that conscious virtue gives,
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.]

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 combined, By mix'd 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 e'en 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; (1) They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: (2) 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;

(1) ["Books without the knowledge of life are useless; for what should books teach but the art of living?"- JOHNSON.]

(2)["These studies are the food of youth, and the consolation of age: they adorn prosperity, and are the comfort and refuge of adversity: they are pleasant at home, and are of no incumbrance abroad: they accompany us at night, on our travels, and in our rural retreats."- CICERO.]

Nor tell to various people various things,

But show to subjects, what they show to kings. (1)
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;

rage;

See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;
See coolers here, that damp the fire of
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. (2)

(1) ["The learned world, as I take it, have ever allowed a liberty of thinking and of speaking one's sentiments. That serene republic knows none of the distance and distinctions which custom has introduced into all others. There is a decent familiarity to be admitted between the greatest and the meanest of it. This has often raised a thought in me, which has something wild, and at the same time something very agreeable in it, when indulged to any degree. 'Tis in relation to the peculiar happiness of men of letters; in that they can sit down in their closets, and converse with the greatest writers of every age and of any nation; and that in as much freedom and intimacy as their nearest friends could ever use towards any of them when living. What an illustrious assembly is there on these shelves! The courts of Augustus, Louis XIV., or Charles II., never beheld such a frequency of great geniuses as stand round a man in his own private study. How large a happiness is it for a person to have it in his power to say at any time, that he is going to spend an afternoon with the most agreeable and most improving company he will choose out of all ages! If he is in a gay humour, perhaps with Horace and Anacreon and Lord Dorset; or if more solid, either with Plato or Sir Isaac Newton."- SPENCE, Essay on Pope's Odyssey.]

(2) ["A library pharmaceutically disposed would have the appearance of a dispensatory, and might be properly enough so called; and when I recollect how many of our eminent collectors of books have been of the medical faculty, I cannot but think it probable that those great benefactors to literature, Radcliffe, Mead, Sloane, Hunter, and others, have had this very idea in their minds, when they founded their libraries."- CUMBERLAND.]