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Oh! say, can such a creature be, Nor gratitude hath warm'd?A soul from vice so seeming free, And yet so much deform'd!
Ah, me! I fear that many such The stage of life have trod;Who seem to worship virtue much, But worship not their God.
'Tis heav'n's own ray that falls in vain Around their stubborn soul—So cheerless stand amid the main, The ice-rocks of the pole!
So glitter in the sunny light With many a frozen wreath—The surface all is dazzling bright, But all is cold beneath!
At length, while yet his pulse was high, And pleasure danc'd around,Disease, with poison'd dart, came by, And gave the fatal wound.
Alas! how chang'd the brilliant scene That late Leander view'd!Forlorn he lies in racking pain, With anguish-drops bedew'd.
