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THE LIBRARY.
Rise up and gather round thee. Plato's brow
Doth blend rebuke with its benignity
That trifles thus should move thee—Seneca
Spreads to thy mind his richly-reasoning page,
While Socrates a cordial half-divine
Pours o'er thy drooping spirit.
But hath Heaven
Unveiled thy nature's deep infirmity,
And shown the spots that darken all we call
Perfection here? All lore of lettered Pride,
Philosophy and Science, then are vain,
They yield no help. Haste to the book of God!
Yea, come to Jesus!—Author of our faith,
And finisher—doubt not His word shall be
A tree of life to feed thy fainting soul,
Till thou arise where knowledge hath no bound,
And dwell a tireless student of the skies.
