Page:Poems (Crabbe).djvu/159

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127

Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen, from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But shew to subjects, what they shew to kings.
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 diseas'd in mind;
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage,
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees controul
The chronic habits of the sickly soul;
And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here, their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul, man's busy scenes exclude,
And view compos'd this silent multitude:—
Silent they are, but, though depriv'd of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;
Here all that live no more; preserv'd they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.
Blest be the gracious power, who taught mankind,
To stamp a lasting image of the mind:—
Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing
Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring:
But man alone, has skill and power to send,
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;
'Tis his alone, to please, instruct, advise,
Ages remote and nations yet to rise.