Poems (Lewis)/To Vanity
TO VANITY.
Oh! Thou, whom thankless men revile,Best soother of their pains;Thou, in whose gay complacent smileEternal sunshine reigns;On wounded pride and feelings soreWhose friendly hand can balsam pour,And blunt the shafts of scorn;This votive wreath for Thee I twine,And bid the Muse thy gaudy shrine,Sweet Vanity, adorn!
Hark!—Some, whose pride this name offends,My blunt confession blame,And while beneath thy sway he bends,Each terms thee, "Love of Fame."I, [who where-ever rests mine eye,In various forms thy power descry,Employed mankind to bless;]Despise such paltry shifts, and dare,Kind Vanity, to Thee my prayerAnd grateful verse address.
The pliant form does Nature crampIn rude unsightly cast?Do withered features wear the stampOf many a winter past?To limbs mis-shaped and wrinkled faceThy magic glass can easy graceAnd youthful bloom impart;Crimson pale cheeks, blanch sallow hands,And squinting eyes at thy commandsLove's brightest fires can dart.
When shallow politicians fainTheir reasoning powers would show,Thou bid'st each nerve its strength maintain,And giv'st the tongue its flow.And when some witless rhymster triesHis Lesbia's lips, or Chloe's eyes,In maudlin verse to praise,Thy hand still mends each limping line,Attests the work correct, divine,And wreathes his brow with bays!
Oft when neglected genius drooped,Crushed by Misfortune's shower,At thy persuasion Rank hath stooped,And raised the fading flower.Oft too, the hand which clenched remained,While suppliant worth of want complainedIn accents sad and sweet,Soon as thy voice was heard to plead,Its captive thousands straight hath freed,And poured them at thy feet.
Oh! Fair Enchantress, now displayOn me thy magic art;Spread round my couch thy visions gay,And calm my swelling heart!Myself no longer let me see,So far from all I fain would be;Paint me from faults exempt:Bid cruel sense obey thy rule,And make me. . . .like yon happy Fool,My envy and contempt.
Pleased with himself, no busy thoughtSuggests, he can displease;In all he does or says, he noughtBut sterling merit sees.To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,More tuneful sounds than golden harpBy hands of seraphs strung;And while his prate each hearer tires,He thinks Apollo's self inspiresThe nothings of his tongue.
He ne'er perceives from every eyeContemptuous glances sent;He ne'er suspects that keen replyTo mock his folly meant:Half-stifled laugh, retort severe,Bombastic praise, and open sneer,In him no anguish cause;To modest fear his soul is dead,And if in scorn you wave your head,He thinks you nod applause.
Vain happy Thing! for one like thingMy soul to change I sue,At errors past who still repine,Though still committing new!Where folly leads, I darkling stray,With thorns while Reason strews my way,And paints in colours strongEach fault to shock my conscious sight;But never warns me what is right,'Till certain that I'm wrong.
Quite fool enough the world to showUnvarnished each defect;Just wise enough my faults to know,But not those faults correct;With keen regret on follies pastI dwell, and when my heart at lastWith bitter grief flows o'er,To mark each weakness still awake,What sense is mine, but serves to makeMe feel I should have more.
What though my soul, warm, grateful, kind,Still sighs for social joys;Truth with suspicion taints my mind,And all my bliss destroys.In vain may Love and Friendship tell,Spite of his whims and faults, how wellThey prize the wayward elf:Nor Love nor Friendship seem sincere;For can I be to others dear,Thus hateful to myself?
But Truth shall mar my peace no more!Her empire I abjure,Who still delights to show the sore,But never shows the cure.No more her gall shall drug my bowl;No more beneath her harsh controulMy swelling heart shall pine:Her burning chains I burst, and nowTo bind my willing senses vow,Blest Vanity, in thine!
Hear, loved Deluder! hear my prayer!Restore my bosom's rest;Borne on yon rainbow cleave the air,And lull me on thy breast!Thy glittering fillet o'er my viewBind with benignant hand; renewThe flattering dreams of youth;For sure, 'tis better far to cheatThe mind to bliss with kind deceit,Than wound with painful truth!