Ode V. to Vanity

With roses wreathe the sportive lute, Let jocund rebecks sound; Responsive to the warbling flute Soft carols wake around. To her who prompts the idle lay Let every Muse her poeans pay, Let fays and elves with gamesome glee Trip o'er the green in measured maze, And each exalt the song of praise, O Vanity, to thee!

Thou, Goddess, from thy limbo boon, Thy old grotesque abode, Glide thro' the still nights shadowy noon, And bring thy magic rod, To charm to life the Ionic lyre, And sprightly flowing strains inspire; That, lapt in visionary joy, Nor Fortune's wave, nor Envy's blast, Nor present pain, nor pleasure past, May ever breed annoy.

And lo the minstrel fays advance In robes of glossy green, While the elves lead on the mazy dance Those strike the harp between. Thy birth, O Vanity, they sing: How Fancy on the day of Spring Went forth to hail the rosy morn; And cull each dewy spangled flower Around the fragrance of her bower, Her tresses to adorn.

Till wandering in the vocal vale, Amid enchanted ground, Where gamboled every laughing Gale, With blooming odors crowned; To Error's cave her steps were led, Where Self-love, on his downy bed, Dissolves his cares in soft repose; And, lulled by Sloth's oblivious strain, He never shares another's pain, Nor in his rapture glows.

Soon as the radiance of the maid Approached the secret bower, Amazement from his sleepy shade Arouzed the torpid Power. He gazed her ruby tinctured cheek, Her liquid eyes, her bosom sleek, (Surprize controled her rising scorn) Compressed her in his warm embrace; Time smiling urged his rapid race, And Vanity was born.

Now, all arrayed in rainbow hues, She strays along the green, Tracing with speed the roseate dews, To glad the village scene. Where the airy swain and buxom maid Dance in the woodbine woven shade, Flaunting the coolly fragrant air; His foppish arts to steal her love, Her coy disdain, her blushes prove, That Vanity is there.

Thence to the courtly fair she flies, (Love sporting in her train,) Aids the smooth tongue and sparkling eyes To flatter and to feign. To every charm gives brighter grace, Inspires the snowy vermil face With softer languish, sweeter fire; And teaches each delusive art To fan or kindle in the heart The flame of fond desire.

Nor to the fair alone confined, Nor to the glittering hour, Even the benign enlightened mind Oft feels thy magic power. But ah all such bless with thy hate! Suffice the gay, the modern great, Thy light fantastic rod obey; The spleeny sage, the vacant clown, The slaves of Pride, of Pleasure, own Thy soul deluding sway.