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
