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Thus in the calms of life, we only seeA steadier image of our misery;But lively gales, and gently-clouded skies,Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;And busy thoughts, and little cares availTo ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,We bleed anew in every former grief,And joys departed furnish no relief. Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart;.The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,And anxious searches for congenial cares;Those lenient cares, which, with our own combin'd,By mixt sensations ease th' afflicted mind,And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind;A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endureWithout regret, nor ev'n demand a cure. But what strange art, what magic can disposeThe troubled mind to change its native woes?Or lead us willing from ourselves, to seeOthers more wretched, more undone than we?This, Books can do; --- nor this alone; they giveNew views to life, and teach us how to live;They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise,Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:Their aid they yield to all; they never shunThe man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone:
