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ODE.

[Put on, O Vice, thy proper hue]

I.

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.

II.

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,
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They stripp'd themselves to lave
Beneath a grot in the translucent wave,
Hast deck'd thy odious face.

III.

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.

IV.

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.
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V.

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.

VI.

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.
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