Of making many _books_ there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.--Ecclesiastes, xii. 12. There shall in no wise enter into it (the holy city) any thing that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie: but they which are written in the Lamb’s _book_ of life.--Revelation, xxi. 27. Thy glass will shew thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste, Thy vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear, And of this _book_ this learning may’st thou taste: The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by the dial’s shady stealth may’st know Time’s thievish progress to eternity; Look, what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shall find Those children nursed delivered from thy brain To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices so oft as thou wilt look, Will profit thee, and much enrich thy _book_. _Shakspere._ But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes, Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This _books_ can do;--nor this alone, they give New views of life, and teach us how to live. They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confound the wise; Their aid they lead to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone. Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings. Blessed be the gracious Power! who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind. Beasts may convey and tuneful birds may sing their mutual feelings in the opening spring, But man alone has skill and power to send The heart’s warm dictates to a distant friend; ’Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise. _Crabbe._ I love the sacred _book_ of God, No other can its place supply; It points me to the saints’ abode, It gives me wings, and bids me fly. Blest _book_! in thee my eyes discern The image of my absent Lord; From thine instructive page I learn The joys his presence will afford. Then shall I need thy light no more, For nothing shall be there concealed; When I have reached the heavenly shore The Lord himself will stand revealed. When, ’midst the throng celestial placed, The bright original I see, From which thy sacred page was traced, Blest _book_! I’ve no more need of thee.