THE LIBRARY. (')

(1) [For Mr. Crabbe's own account of the preparation of this poem for the press, under Mr. Burke's eye, at Beaconsfield, see the preceding volume of this collection, p. 95. "The Library" appeared anonymously, in June, 1781; but the author's name and designation as domestic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland were on the title-page of a second edition published in 1783.]

known in distant Times

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Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own- They are productive of other Advantages An Author's Hope of being Arrangement of the Library— Size and Form of the Volumes-The ancient Folio, clasped and chained- Fashion prevalent even in this Place - The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c. Subjects of the different Classes Divinity Controversy - The Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes Sceptical Authors Reason too much rejected by the former Converts; exclusively relied upon by the latter Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to moral Subjects Books of Medicine: their Variety, Variance, and Proneness to System: the Evil of this, and the Difficulty it causes Farewell to this Study Law: the increasing Number of its Volumes Supposed happy State of Man without Laws Progress of Society - Historians: their Subjects-Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic- Ancient Romances The Captive Heroine. Happiness in the Perusal of such Books: why-Criticism - Apprehensions of the Author: removed by the Appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject.

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THE

LIBRARY.

WHEN the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire? (')
Where fade away and placidly expire?

1) [After line fourth, the original MS. reads as follows:-
Where can the wretched lose their cares, and hide
The tears of sorrow from the eyes of pride?
Can they in silent shades a refuge find

From all the scorn and malice of mankind?

From wit's disdain, and wealth's provoking sneer,
From folly's grin, and humour's stupid leer,

And clamour's iron tongue, censorious and severe?
There can they see the scenes of nature gay,
And shake the gloomy dreams of life away?
Without a sigh, the hope of youth give o'er,
And with aspiring honour climb no more.

Alas! we fly to peaceful shades in vain;
Peace dwells within, or all without is pain:
No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas-
He dreads a tempest, but desires a breeze.
The placid waves with silent swell disclose
A clearer view, and but reflect his woes.
So life has calms, in which we only see
A fuller prospect of our misery.

Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain ;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain :

When the sick heart, by no design employ'd
Throbs o'er the past, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd,
In former pleasures finding no relief,

And pain'd anew in every former grief.
Can friends console us when our cares distress,
Smile on our woes, and make misfortunes less?
Alas! like winter'd leaves, they fall away,
Or more disgrace our prospects by delay;
The genial warmth, the fostering sap is past,
That kept them faithful, and that held them fast.
Where shall we fly?-to yonder still retreat,
The haunt of Genius and the Muses' seat,
Where all our griefs in others' strains rehearse,
Speak with old Time, and with the dead converse;
Till Fancy, far in distant regions flown,
Adopts a thousand schemes, and quits her own;
Skims every scene, and plans with each design,
Towers in each thought, and lives in every line
From clime to clime with rapid motion flies,
Weeps without woe, and without sorrow sighs;
To all things yielding, and by all things sway'd,
To all obedient, and by all obey'd;
The source of pleasures, noble and refined,
And the great empress of the Poet's mind.
Here led by thee, fair Fancy, I behold
The mighty heroes, and the bards of old!
For here the Muses sacred vigils keep,
And all the busy cares of being sleep;

No monarch covets war, nor dreams of fame,
No subject bleeds to raise his tyrant's name,

No proud great man, or man that would be great,
Drives modest merit from its proper state,
Nor rapine reaps the good by labour sown,
Nor envy blasts a laurel, but her own.

Yet Contemplation, silent goddess, here,
In her vast eye, makes all mankind appear,
All Nature's treasures, all the stores of Art,
That fire the fancy, or engage the heart,

The world's vast views, the fancy's wild domain,

And all the motley objects of the brain :

Here mountains hurl'd on mountains proudly rise,

Far, far o'er Nature's dull realities;

Eternal verdure decks a sacred clime,

Eternal spring for ever blooms in rhyme,