128
In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,
When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,
When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,
And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest,—
Why then denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common care?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;
That after-ages may repeat his praise,
And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days.
Delightful prospect! when we leave behind,
A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind;
Which, born and nurst through many an anxious day,
Shall, all our labour, all our cares repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,
Not all the children of a vigorous mind;
But where the wisest should alone preside,
The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;
Nay, Man's best efforts taste of Man, and show,
The poor and troubled source from which they flow;
Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:
Here come the griev'd, a change of thought to find;
The curious here, to feed a craving mind;
Here the devout, their peaceful temple choose;
And here, the Poet meets his favouring muse.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread,
These are the lasting mansions of the dead;-
When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,
When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,
And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest,—
Why then denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common care?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;
That after-ages may repeat his praise,
And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days.
Delightful prospect! when we leave behind,
A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind;
Which, born and nurst through many an anxious day,
Shall, all our labour, all our cares repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,
Not all the children of a vigorous mind;
But where the wisest should alone preside,
The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;
Nay, Man's best efforts taste of Man, and show,
The poor and troubled source from which they flow;
Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
But though imperfect all; yet wisdom loves
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves:
Here come the griev'd, a change of thought to find;
The curious here, to feed a craving mind;
Here the devout, their peaceful temple choose;
And here, the Poet meets his favouring muse.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread,
These are the lasting mansions of the dead;-
