Ode: Assume, O Vice, thy proper hue

I.
Assume, 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;
It's intimate recesses lie
Open to thy wily eye.
Hence thou with many a mimic grace,
Stol'n from the Virtues, as of old,
Unconscious of an enemy so near,
Always open and sincere,
Ever with decent freedom bold,
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 fated victim o'er the magic 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.

V.
Fatigued 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.
Oh! 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 it's dew his eye-lids seal,
Not even an immortal force
Could open them again; no more
Shall he behold the sun of Virtue pour
It's 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.