Poems Sigourney 1834/The Library
THE LIBRARY.
Thou, whom the world with heartless intercourse
Hath wearied, and thy spirit's hoarded gold
Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid,
Turn hither. 'Tis a quiet resting-place,
Silent, yet peopled well. Here may'st thou hold
Communion eloquent, and undismayed,
Even with the greatest of the ancient earth,
Sages, and sires of science. These shall gird
And sublimate thy soul, until it soar
Above the elements, and view with scorn
The thraldom of an hour.
Doth thy heart bleed,
And is there none to heal,—no comforter?
Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock
Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand
Compress thy fevered brow. The poet's sigh
From buried ages on thine ear shall steal,
Like that sweet harp which soothed the mood of Saul.
The cloistered hero, and the throneless king,
In stately sadness shall admonish thee
How Hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe
The martyr shall unfold,—till in his pangs
Pity doth merge all memory of thine own.
Perchance unceasing care, or thankless toil
Do vex thy spirit, and sharp thorns press deep
Into the naked nerve. Still, hither come,
And close thy door upon the clamouring crowd,
Though for a moment. Grave and glorious shades
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.