LIBRARY OF DR. BOWDITCH.
"It is our hope and expectation, that for many years this apartment will remain as it was left."—Memoir by his Son.
Yes, leave it as it was, untouch'd, unchanged,
And consecrate to hallow'd memories
Of him, the clear-soul'd man, who dwelt with truth
As with a brother.
Break not their array,
Those sages and philosophers, who mix'd
Their thoughts with his, feeding the altar-flame
Of science, with fresh incense day and night.
Spake not the voices of the solemn stars
Here to their votary? Scann'd they here, his eye
Unwearied, searching out their mystic laws?
And shed they not, from their eternal lamps,
Serener light on him?
Methinks 'twere sin
To pry with curious or irreverent hand
Amid those pages where his self-taught mind
Imbodied its creations. O'er yon desk
How oft he toil'd amid the tomes he loved,
To make the occult luminous, and strew
The priceless jewels of profoundest thought
To the wayfaring man, or him who steers
With naught but seas around and skies above—
The hardy mariner.
