Library of Dr. Bowditch

Yes, leave it as it was, untouch'd, unchanged,And consecrate to hallow'd memoriesOf him, the clear-soul'd man, who dwelt with truthAs with a brother.Break not their array,Those sages and philosophers, who mix'dTheir thoughts with his, feeding the altar-flameOf science, with fresh incense day and night.Spake not the voices of the solemn starsHere to their votary? Scann'd they here, his eyeUnwearied, searching out their mystic laws?And shed they not, from their eternal lamps,Serener light on him?Methinks 'twere sinTo pry with curious or irreverent handAmid those pages where his self-taught mindImbodied its creations. O'er yon deskHow oft he toil'd amid the tomes he loved,To make the occult luminous, and strewThe priceless jewels of profoundest thoughtTo the wayfaring man, or him who steersWith naught but seas around and skies above—The hardy mariner.

Move not the chairWhere by his side she sat, the tenderest friend,The mother of his children, her fond glanceIntently resting on his studious brow,And oft by looks of answering love repaid.Here, too, his little ones, fearing no chillOf pedant frown, came flocking, for he join'dTheir happy sports with full hilarity.—How bright his image, in this favour'd spot,Gleams o'er the sorrowing friend. Here was his wontTo pour the tides of healthful feeling forth,In social interchange; for still with himMajestic Science, in her loftiest heights,Knew no austerity, but hand in handWalk'd with life's charities.And thus he lived,And thus, with cheerful acquiescence, metHis euthanasia, and lay down in peace,His couch of pain made soft by filial hands.

—Then let this haunt be sacred.For the footOf strangers here in future days shall turn,As to some Mecca of Philosophy;And hither, too, the aspiring youth shall comeTo question of his greatness, or to seekSome relic of the wondrous man, whose fameStill gathereth greenness from the hand of Time.