Ode to Prudence

Where didst thou hide thee, CAUTIOUS POW'R, When first my vent'rous Youth began? Thou cam'st not to the festive bow'r, Nor at the genial board wert found; And when the liquid grape went round, Thou never show'dst thy warning face, The wantonness of mirth to chase, And tell of short life's shad'wy span: Nor then didst prophesy of woe, To chill my breast's impetuous glow; But provident, and shrewd, from me afar, THOU SUNK'ST TO SOBER REST, WITH DAY'S RETIRING STAR!

'Tis true, indeed, I thought with scorn, Thy miserable maxims quaint, Were but of sour Suspicion born: "Let selfish souls," I madly cried, "Submit to such a coward guide, Be't mine to seek the sportive vale, With Friends, whose truth can never fail, And banish thence each base restraint!" Dull that I was—I feel it now, And offer late th' imploring vow: Too well convinc'd, who dare thy vengeance urge, Can ne'er, alas! escape an agonizing scourge!

Ah! wilt thou, deign then, to receive Thy Foe, profess'd for many a year? And wilt thou teach him, not to grieve? Forget the weakness of past time, When frantic Passion was his crime; When to imperious charms a prey, His Morn of Life stole swift away, Yet gemm'd by Love's delicious Tear, That bath'd his Bosom with delight; Tho' sometimes on the Gales of Night, He heard thy whisper'd threat aspire, How could he heed it then—was not his heart on fire?

But now to gain thy frugal smile, Each wonted transport I forego, No more shall Beauty's self beguile, Altho' her blue Orbs softer stream Than the clear Moon's enchanting beam; Tho' her still varying charms arise, As to the hast'ning Trav'ller's eyes, HELVETIA's summer prospects show: Or should MEEK WORTH to me repair, And tell a Tale of deep Despair, I'd strive to bid each fond emotion sleep, Yes, I would turn away!—BUT I WOULD TURN TO WEEP!

Then, as with decent step and mien, I tread the path of fair repute, Thy Civic hand shall oft be seen, To freight me with the sordid Ore, Which most thy Votaries adore, Then, then shall FLAGGING FANCY die, Then all my lov'd illusions fly, Then will I break my rustic Flute: And as the marble-hearted crowd, Be vainly rich, and meanly proud; Until I fix, like yonder blighted Thorn, That, deck'd WITH GOLDEN BEAMS, NO VERNAL SWEETS ADORN.