Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Library of Dr. Bowditch
LIBRARY OF DR. BOWDITCH.
"It is our hope and expectation, that for many years this apartment will remain as it was left."—Memoir by his Son.
Yes, leave it as it was, untouch'd, unchanged,
And consecrate to hallow'd memories
Of him, the clear-soul'd man, who dwelt with truth
As with a brother.
Break not their array,
Those sages and philosophers, who mix'd
Their thoughts with his, feeding the altar-flame
Of science, with fresh incense day and night.
Spake not the voices of the solemn stars
Here to their votary? Scann'd they here, his eye
Unwearied, searching out their mystic laws?
And shed they not, from their eternal lamps,
Serener light on him?
Methinks 'twere sin
To pry with curious or irreverent hand
Amid those pages where his self-taught mind
Imbodied its creations. O'er yon desk
How oft he toil'd amid the tomes he loved,
To make the occult luminous, and strew
The priceless jewels of profoundest thought
To the wayfaring man, or him who steers
With naught but seas around and skies above—
The hardy mariner.
Move not the chair
Where by his side she sat, the tenderest friend,
The mother of his children, her fond glance
Intently resting on his studious brow,
And oft by looks of answering love repaid.
Here, too, his little ones, fearing no chill
Of pedant frown, came flocking, for he join'd
Their happy sports with full hilarity.
—How bright his image, in this favour'd spot,
Gleams o'er the sorrowing friend. Here was his wont
To pour the tides of healthful feeling forth,
In social interchange; for still with him
Majestic Science, in her loftiest heights,
Knew no austerity, but hand in hand
Walk'd with life's charities.
And thus he lived,
And thus, with cheerful acquiescence, met
His euthanasia, and lay down in peace,
His couch of pain made soft by filial hands.
—Then let this haunt be sacred.
For the foot
Of strangers here in future days shall turn,
As to some Mecca of Philosophy;
And hither, too, the aspiring youth shall come
To question of his greatness, or to seek
Some relic of the wondrous man, whose fame
Still gathereth greenness from the hand of Time.