Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold! Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind; See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage; Here alteratives, by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul; And round the heart and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude:-- Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound; Here all that live no more; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye. 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 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 nursed through many an anxious day, Shall all our labour, all our care 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 grieved, 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! Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time.'