Of small extent to view, ’twill all things hide;
Heaven’s azure arch itself not half so wide.
Here all the arts their sacred mansion choose,
Here dwells the mother of the heaven-born muse,
With wondrous mystic figures round ’tis wrought,
Inlaid with fancy and anneal’d with thought.
What was, or is, or labours yet to be,
Within the womb of dark futurity,
May stowage in this wondrous storehouse find,
Yet leave unnumber’d empty cells behind.