When Genius sounds the tuneful shell, Or heaven heaves the plaintive sigh, Entranced upon the theme we dwell, And love her minstrelsy. Yet should the Muse her treasures bring From Guilt or Error's tainted spring, The Circean cup we fly; Reject the sweet but poison'd bowl That pours corruption on the soul.
And thus thy rich and varied strain Enchants and wounds the ear; Thy bitter smile of proud disdain Mocks what we most revere: Still, touch'd with all a Poet's fire, Thy verse compels us to admire, Though 'neath that veil appear The darkness of the soul within, The gloom of unrepented sin.
Ill-minded man! was deep remorse Felt with so little pain, That thou wouldst run the guilty course, And taste its gall again? Could virtue in her loveliest dress, And pure Affection's chaste caress, Engage the heart in vain? Had infant innocence no charm? Did nobler feelings cease to warm?
Then go! and in the faithless smile That marks the harden'd heart below, A little space thou may'st beguile The pang thou yet shall know; For now though deaf thy coward ear, The time will come when thou shalt hear, In impotence of woe, That juggling Friend who cries at last I warn'd thee, when "to dust" has pass'd.
