But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves to fee
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This books can do―nor this alone; they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live;
They foothe the griev'd, the ftubborn they chastife,
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wife.
Their aid they yield to all; they never shun
The man of forrow, nor the wretch undone :
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not fullen from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But fhew to fubjects what they fhew to kings.

Come then, and entering view this fpacious scene,
This facred dome, this noble magazine;

Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental phyfic the diseas'd in mind.

rage:

See here the balms that paffion's wounds affuage,
See coolers here, that damp the fire of
Here alt'ratives by flow degrees controul
The chronic habits of the fickly foul;
And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here their fober influence fhed.

In this felection, which the human mind
With care has made, for glory has defign'd,
All should be perfect; or at least appear
From falfehood, vanity, and paffion clear:
But man's best efforts taste of man, and show

The poor and troubled fource from whence they flow; His very triumphs his defeats must speak,

And ev❜n his wifdom ferves to prove him weak.

6

Fashion,

Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,
Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;
From courts and crowds to Wisdom's feat she goes,
And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.
Yon folios, once the darlings of the mode,
Now lie neglected like the birth-day ode;
There learning, stuff'd with maxims trite tho' fage,
Makes indigeftion yawn at every page :
Chain'd like Prometheus, lo! the mighty train
Brave Time's fell tooth, and live and die again;
And now the scorn of men, and now the pride,
The fires refpect them, and the fons deride.

CRABBE.

SECT. CXVII.

ON THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE BOOKS.

WITH awe around these filent walks I tread,

These are the lasting mansions of the dead;
The dead! methinks a thousand tongues reply,
These are the tombs of those who cannot die :
Crown'd with eternal fame, they fit fublime,
And laugh at all the little ftrife 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,
Loft and bewilder'd in the vast defire:

Whether

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;

Or men and manners prompt the eafy page
To mark the flying follies of the age :—
Whatever good ye boast, that good impart,
Inform the head, and rectify the heart.

Lo! all in filence, all in order fland,
And mighty Folios firft, a lordly band;
Then Quartos their well-order'd ranks maintain,
And light Octavos fill a fpacious plain:
See yonder, rang'd in more frequented rows,
An humbler band of Duodecimos;
While undiftinguifh'd trifles fwell the fcene,
The last new play, and fritter'd magazine.
Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,
In leagued affembly keep their cumbrous ftate;
Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,
Are much admir'd, and are but little read:
The commons next, a middle rank are found;
Profeffions fruitful pour their offspring round;
Wits, bards, and idlers, fill a tatter'd row,
And the vile vulgar lie difdain'd below.

Amid thefe works, on which the eager eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by,
Where all combin'd their decent pomp display,
Where shall we first our early offering pay?
To thee, Philofophy! to thee, the light,

The guide of mortals through their mentai night;
By whom the world in all its views is shown,

Our guide through Nature's works, and in our own;

Who place in order Being's wondrous chain,
Save where those puzzling, ftubborn links remain,
By art divine involv'd, which man can neʼer explain.
Next History ranks. There full in front she lies,
And every nation her dread tale supplies;

Yet History has her doubts, and every age
With fceptic queries marks the paffing page:
Records of old nor later date are clear,

Too diftant those, and these are plac'd too near;
There time conceals the objects from our view,
Here our own paffions, and a writer's too.
Yet in thefe volumes fee how ftates arofe,
Guarded by virtue from furrounding foes!
Their virtue loft, and of their triumphs vain,
Lo! how they funk to flavery again!
Satiate with power, of fame and wealth poffefs'd,
A nation grows too glorious to be bleft;
Confpicuous made, fhe ftands the mark of all,
And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.

Thus fpeaks the page that paints Ambition's race,
The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace;
The headlong course that madd'ning heroes run,
How foon triumphant, and how foon undone;
How flaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to fale,
And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs flood,
Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood,
There, fuch the tafte of our degenerate age,
Stand the profane delufions of the Stage.
Yet Virtue owns the Tragic Muse a friend,
Fable her means, morality her end;

For

For this fhe rules all paffions in their turns,
And now the bofom bleeds, and now it burns;
Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl,
Her anger swells, her terror chills the foul;
She makes the vile to Virtue yield applause,
And own her fceptre, while they break her laws :
For Vice in others is abhorr'd of all,

And villains glory in a villain's fall.

Not thus her fifter Comedy prevails,
Who shoots at Folly, for her arrow fails;
Folly, by dulnefs arm'd, receives no wound,
But harmless fees the feather'd shafts rebound.
'Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,
Laughs at her malice, and is Folly ftil.
Yet well she paints in her descriptive scenes,
What pride will ftoop to, what profeffion means ¿
How formal fools the farce of ftate applaud,
How caution watches at the lips of fraud;
The wordy variance of domestic life,
The tyrant husband, the retorting wife;
The fnares for innocence, the lie of trade,
And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade,
With her the virtues too obtain a place,
Each gentle paffion, each becoming grace ;
The focial joy in life's fecurer road,
Its eafy pleasure, its fubftantial good;

The happy thought that conscious virtue gives,
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.