XI.
The youth, whom admiration draws
To sacrifice at Beauty's shrine,
'Till, mad'ned with his own applause,
He deems the mortal nymph divine.
How does he time, and fate upbraid,
'Till wedded to th' all perfect maid.
But then the fond illusion flies:
Fancy to solid thought will yield,
And many a fault till then conceal'd
Burst from the mist of love on pain'd discernment's eyes.
XII.
Why should the muse the theme prolong
The miseries of guilt to tell?
In the abodes of shame and wrong
Can the light Sylphid pleasure dwell?
Can opulence, by meanness sway'd,
Can power, that honour has betray'd,
Can rash unsatisfied desire,
The state of solitary pride,
The bowl to madness near ally'd,
Oh happiness! can these to thy rich prize aspire?
XIII.
Hear Prudence: " Cease, the search is vain,
" Fate will your wishes still prevent;
" Yet treat not Prudence with disdain,
" And she shall lead you to Content.
" Tho' 'tis not mine with transport high
" Each ravish'd sense to gratify;
" Secure tranquillity I give.
" Where the still waters softly flow,
" Distant alike from bliss and woe,
" There shall the happy few, who own my guidance, live. "
XIV.
Yet Prudence! e'en thy humble plea
Sedate experience disallows.
Canst thou from sickness set us free,
Nor suffer age to load our brows?
See awful Death! his arrows strike
The wary and the rash alike;
Canst thou against his power contend?
He with anticipated shroud
Veils all the joys to man allow'd,
And in the grave's dark gloom bids all our prospects end.
XV.
And are a few uncertain years,
Of doubtful bliss, of deep distress,
Of blessings, circumscrib'd by fears,
The sum of human happiness?
The heav'n-born soul, is it endu'd
With such insatiate thirst for good,
And must it ne'er desire assuage?
Must disappointment, toil, and pain,
O'er this terrestrial planet reign,
Till death and silence clear the busy crowded stage?
XVI.
Toil! drop thy ineffectual arm;
Exertion! thy vain zeal controul;
Let apathy the passions charm,
And melancholy lull the soul,
The race to speed does not belong;
The battle does not grace the strong,
Nor yet is honour wisdom's meed.
Oh Vanity! thus let me sing,
With Salem's well experienc'd King,
Oh earth! thy best delights are Vanity indeed.
The youth, whom admiration draws
To sacrifice at Beauty's shrine,
'Till, mad'ned with his own applause,
He deems the mortal nymph divine.
How does he time, and fate upbraid,
'Till wedded to th' all perfect maid.
But then the fond illusion flies:
Fancy to solid thought will yield,
And many a fault till then conceal'd
Burst from the mist of love on pain'd discernment's eyes.
XII.
Why should the muse the theme prolong
The miseries of guilt to tell?
In the abodes of shame and wrong
Can the light Sylphid pleasure dwell?
Can opulence, by meanness sway'd,
Can power, that honour has betray'd,
Can rash unsatisfied desire,
The state of solitary pride,
The bowl to madness near ally'd,
Oh happiness! can these to thy rich prize aspire?
XIII.
Hear Prudence: " Cease, the search is vain,
" Fate will your wishes still prevent;
" Yet treat not Prudence with disdain,
" And she shall lead you to Content.
" Tho' 'tis not mine with transport high
" Each ravish'd sense to gratify;
" Secure tranquillity I give.
" Where the still waters softly flow,
" Distant alike from bliss and woe,
" There shall the happy few, who own my guidance, live. "
XIV.
Yet Prudence! e'en thy humble plea
Sedate experience disallows.
Canst thou from sickness set us free,
Nor suffer age to load our brows?
See awful Death! his arrows strike
The wary and the rash alike;
Canst thou against his power contend?
He with anticipated shroud
Veils all the joys to man allow'd,
And in the grave's dark gloom bids all our prospects end.
XV.
And are a few uncertain years,
Of doubtful bliss, of deep distress,
Of blessings, circumscrib'd by fears,
The sum of human happiness?
The heav'n-born soul, is it endu'd
With such insatiate thirst for good,
And must it ne'er desire assuage?
Must disappointment, toil, and pain,
O'er this terrestrial planet reign,
Till death and silence clear the busy crowded stage?
XVI.
Toil! drop thy ineffectual arm;
Exertion! thy vain zeal controul;
Let apathy the passions charm,
And melancholy lull the soul,
The race to speed does not belong;
The battle does not grace the strong,
Nor yet is honour wisdom's meed.
Oh Vanity! thus let me sing,
With Salem's well experienc'd King,
Oh earth! thy best delights are Vanity indeed.