Poems on Several Occasions, Ode

Put on, O Vice, thy proper hue, In thy own native likeness stand, Soon shalt thou find thy subjects few, Thy throne uprear'd on sand: Abhorrent Nature with surprise Would turn away her loathing eyes; Ingenuous Youth with pain Thy monstrous shape would see Cover'd with each toad-spotted stain; While writhing Anguish, and pale Infamy, Stalk close behind, too desperate to complain.

But cunning as thou art, Well dost thou know the human heart; Its intimate recesses lie Open to thy wily eye. Hence thou with many a mimick grace, Stol'n from the Virtues, as of old, Unconscious of an enemy so near, Always open and sincere, They stripp'd themselves to lave Beneath a grot in the translucent wave, Hast deck'd thy odious face.

Thy unsuspecting lover thinks them true: Of cloudy vapours made, A thousand dazzling forms parade Before his cheated view: A thousand pleasures move, Breathing Mirth, and social Love; Some with quick-doubling feet, And winning smiles, advance In the mazy circling dance; And then with more alluring step retreat.

Others on waving wing, Such notes of lively transport sing; Or varying now their strain, With such dying melody complain; That guided by th' enchanting sound, And swallowed up in hearing, every sense, The cheated victim o'er the magick ground, Straying without defence, His careless progress takes; Till lost among inextricable brakes, Or in the midst of some wild heath forlorn, He finds himself at last; Hears nothing but the wintry blast, Which all his idle moanings flouts with scorn.

Fatigu'd and spiritless he lies, Nor dares from the cold earth to rise; Night closes in.—Ah, where art thou, Celestial Hope! thy face the darkness shrouds;— Oh! through the quick-disparting clouds Appear, and by the moon's clear ray Let him behold thy placid brow: Faithful companion of thy way, By his golden lance well known, And firm-ingirding adamantine zone, Bring Resolution, in a purple vest By the young unfledg'd Moments drest.

O raise him in your arms! and while his veins Yet flow with life, while any strength remains, Bear him away with swiftest course: For should Sleep on him steal, And with its dew his eye-lids seal, Not even an immortal force Could open them again; no more Shall he behold the sun of Virtue pour Its radiance from the morning-sky; Black mists shall round him ever fly; Or he shall fall from some steep mountain's brow, O'erwhelm'd by the deep flood that roars below.