The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson ::

Insatiate Tyrant of the Mind,
Fantastic, aëry, empty thing,
Borne on Illusion's flutt'ring wing,
Fallacious as the wanton wind;
Capricious Goddess!—Beauty's foe;
Thou—who no settled home dost know;
The busy World, the sylvan Plain,
Alike confess thy potent reign.
Queen of the motley garb—at thy command
Fashion waves her flow'ry wand;
See she kindles Fancy's flame,
Around her dome thy incense flies,
The curling fumes ascend the skies,
And fill the “Trump of Fame.”

110

When Heaven's translucent ray
Unveil'd the mighty work of God;
When the Promethean spark of day
Awoke his Image from a torpid clod;
When radiance pour'd on human sight,
And the illumin'd Soul beam'd with celestial light;
Exulting Man, sole Potentate below,
First felt thy pois'nous glow;
He gaz'd upon his wondrous frame;
The self-approving conscious flame
Thrill'd in each trembling vein with subtle art,
Then fix'd its baneful source within his godlike Heart.

Thy breath accurs'd brought deathless woe
On Man's devoted race;
Hurl'd th' aspiring Fiend to realms below,
Who, plung'd in fell disgrace,
There, deep inthrall'd in adamantine spells,
In chains of scorpions bound, for ever, ever dwells.

In ev'ry scene of social joy,
Amidst the rude unpolish'd train,
From the low offspring of the barren plain,
To him whose lofty bosom owns
Descent sublime from scepter'd thrones,
All, all thy laws obey.

111

Thy light hand plumes the warrior's brow,
Decks e'en fierce war with tinsel show,
E'en in the tented fields thy banners flow,
To thee illustrious Chieftains bow;
'Tis thy capricious influence forms
All that mad ambition warms;
The laurel wreath, tho' steep'd in blood,
Plac'd by thy fickle hand, appears
Radiant as the sunny spheres,
When Morn's proud beams roll in a golden flood.

Ah, Vanity! avert thine eye;
Check thy fell exulting joy;
With burning drops thy flush'd cheek lave,
Nor gloat upon the carnag'd brave;
For what can trophied wreaths supply,
To drown the desolating cry,
That, o'er th' empurpled fields afar,
Proclaims the dread-destructive pow'r of War?

E'en amidst the savage race,
The untam'd Indian owns thy sway;
For thee he paints his tawny face,
And decks his shaggy hair with fragments gay:
For thee he marks his sun-burnt breast,
With beads and feathers idly drest;—

112

His hardy limbs with glowing tints imbru'd,
Reeking and mangled with the pointed dart,
Vainly he vaunts—nor heeds the smart,
Tho' pitying Nature weeps with tears of blood.

Then turn, my Muse, where milder joys
The village hero's mind employs;
Where gentler sports delight the breast,
And soften'd Nature smiles confest.
Let me paint the rural scene,
The white-wash'd hut—the velvet green,
May's blithe morn—exulting glee,
The chaplet pendant on each tree,
The shining hat with gaudy ribbands bound,
The lofty may-pole and the well-swept ground,
Where valiant combats speak the thirst of Fame,
And the loud shout proclaims the victor's name.

O Vanity, thy potent reign
Spreads its influence o'er the plain—
For thee, the blushing maids prepare
Garlands wove with nicest care;
For thee, they dress their festive bow'rs
With waving wreaths of scented flow'rs,
Where the bold Youth that wins the prize
Reads his best Victory in his Sweetheart's Eyes.

113

Such is thy pow'r—thy mandate rules
Above the laws of Pedant-Schools;
Reason in vain contends with Thee,
Triumphant, Deathless Vanity!
E'en now I feel thy vivid sparks infuse
A warmth that guides my hand, and bids me court the Muse.

University of Virginia Library

ODE TO VANITY.