Poems (Lewis)/To Vanity
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TO VANITY.
Oh! Thou, whom thankless men revile,
Best soother of their pains;
Thou, in whose gay complacent smile
Eternal sunshine reigns;
On wounded pride and feelings sore
Whose 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!
Best soother of their pains;
Thou, in whose gay complacent smile
Eternal sunshine reigns;
On wounded pride and feelings sore
Whose 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 prayer
And grateful verse address.
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 prayer
And grateful verse address.
The pliant form does Nature cramp
In rude unsightly cast?
Do withered features wear the stamp
Of many a winter past?
To limbs mis-shaped and wrinkled face
Thy magic glass can easy grace
And youthful bloom impart;
Crimson pale cheeks, blanch sallow hands,
And squinting eyes at thy commands
Love's brightest fires can dart.
In rude unsightly cast?
Do withered features wear the stamp
Of many a winter past?
To limbs mis-shaped and wrinkled face
Thy magic glass can easy grace
And youthful bloom impart;
Crimson pale cheeks, blanch sallow hands,
And squinting eyes at thy commands
Love's brightest fires can dart.
When shallow politicians fain
Their reasoning powers would show,
Thou bid'st each nerve its strength maintain,
And giv'st the tongue its flow.
And when some witless rhymster tries
His 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!
Their reasoning powers would show,
Thou bid'st each nerve its strength maintain,
And giv'st the tongue its flow.
And when some witless rhymster tries
His 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 complained
In accents sad and sweet,
Soon as thy voice was heard to plead,
Its captive thousands straight hath freed,
And poured them at thy feet.
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 complained
In 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 display
On 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.
On 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 thought
Suggests, he can displease;
In all he does or says, he nought
But sterling merit sees.
To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,
More tuneful sounds than golden harp
By hands of seraphs strung;
And while his prate each hearer tires,
He thinks Apollo's self inspires
The nothings of his tongue.
Suggests, he can displease;
In all he does or says, he nought
But sterling merit sees.
To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,
More tuneful sounds than golden harp
By hands of seraphs strung;
And while his prate each hearer tires,
He thinks Apollo's self inspires
The nothings of his tongue.
He ne'er perceives from every eye
Contemptuous glances sent;
He ne'er suspects that keen reply
To 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.
Contemptuous glances sent;
He ne'er suspects that keen reply
To 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 thing
My 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 strong
Each fault to shock my conscious sight;
But never warns me what is right,
'Till certain that I'm wrong.
My 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 strong
Each 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 show
Unvarnished each defect;
Just wise enough my faults to know,
But not those faults correct;
With keen regret on follies past
I dwell, and when my heart at last
With bitter grief flows o'er,
To mark each weakness still awake,
What sense is mine, but serves to make
Me feel I should have more.
Unvarnished each defect;
Just wise enough my faults to know,
But not those faults correct;
With keen regret on follies past
I dwell, and when my heart at last
With bitter grief flows o'er,
To mark each weakness still awake,
What sense is mine, but serves to make
Me 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 well
They prize the wayward elf:
Nor Love nor Friendship seem sincere;
For can I be to others dear,
Thus hateful to myself?
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 well
They 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 controul
My swelling heart shall pine:
Her burning chains I burst, and now
To bind my willing senses vow,
Blest Vanity, in thine!
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 controul
My swelling heart shall pine:
Her burning chains I burst, and now
To 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 view
Bind with benignant hand; renew
The flattering dreams of youth;
For sure, 'tis better far to cheat
The mind to bliss with kind deceit,
Than wound with painful truth!
Restore my bosom's rest;
Borne on yon rainbow cleave the air,
And lull me on thy breast!
Thy glittering fillet o'er my view
Bind with benignant hand; renew
The flattering dreams of youth;
For sure, 'tis better far to cheat
The mind to bliss with kind deceit,
Than wound with painful truth!