Mild Opiates here, their sober Influence shed. Now bid thy Soul, Man’s busy Scenes exclude, And view compos’d this silent Multitude:-- Silent they are, but, though depriv’d of Sound, Here all the living Languages abound; Here all that live no more; preserv’d they lie, In Tombs that open to the curious Eye. Blest 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 the distant Friend: ’Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise, Ages remote and Nations yet to rise. In sweet Repose, when Labour’s Children sleep, When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep, When Passion slumbers in the Lover’s Breast, And Fear and Guilt partake the Balm of Rest, Why then denies the studious Man to share Man’s common Good, who feels his common Care? Because the Hope is his, that bids him fly Night’s soft Repose and Sleep’s mild Power defy; That After-ages may repeat his Praise, And Fame’s fair Meed be his, for length of days. Delightful Prospect! when we leave behind, A worthy Offspring of the fruitful Mind! Which, born and nurst through many an anxious day, Shall all our Labour, all our Cares repay. Yet all are not these Births of noble Kind, Not all the Children of a vigorous Mind; But where the Wisest should alone preside, The Weak would rule us and the Blind would guide; Nay, Man’s best Efforts taste of Man, and show, The poor and troubled Source from which they flow; Where most he triumphs, we his Wants perceive, And for his Weakness in his Wisdom grieve. But though imperfect all; yet Wisdom loves This Seat serene, and Virtue’s self approves:-- Here come the Griev’d, a Change of Thought to find; The Curious here, to feed a craving Mind; Here the Devout, their peaceful Temple choose; And here, the Poet meets his favouring Muse. With awe, around these silent Walks I tread; These are the lasting Mansions of the Dead:-- ‘The Dead!’, methinks a thousand Tongues reply; ‘These are the Tombs of such as cannot die! ‘Crown’d with eternal Fame, they sit sublime, ‘And laugh at all the little Strife of Time’. Hail, then, Immortals! ye who shine above, Each in his Sphere, the literary Jove; And ye the common People of these Skies, An humbler crowd of nameless Deities; Whether ’tis yours to lead the willing Mind Through History’s Mazes, and the Turnings find; Or whether, led by Science, ye retire, Lost and bewilder’d in the vast Desire; Whether the Muse invites you to her Bowers, And crowns your placid Brows with living Flowers; Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show The noblest Road to Happiness below;