O while ye glory in your youthful prime,
And yield attention to the syren voice
Of Praise; in that soft season, when the breast
A strange enchantment feels; when Pleasure pants
In every vein; and sparkles in the eye
Superfluous Health; then guard your rebel hearts
Against seducing Love. Suspend, ye fair!
These softer cares, and listen, while the Muse
Rises superior to the fading glare
Of mortal charms, and now essays to touch
The heart, and open to th' enraptur'd soul
More lasting Beauty, moral and divine,
Which grows in age, nor at the pale approach
Of death decays; but with unblasted grace
For ever blossoms. Hail! bright Virtue, hail!
Propitious come, inspire my glowing breast
To sing of thee! Without thee, what are all
Life's gayest trappings, what the fleeting show
Of youth, or charms, which for a moment spread
Their visionary bloom, but withering die,
Nor leave remembrance of their fancy'd worth!