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Mary Darby Robinson - Ode to Vanity
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INSATIATE TYRANT OF THE MIND; 
    Fantastic, aëry, empty thing; 
    Borne on Illusion`s flutt`ring wing, 
  Fallacious as the wanton wind; 
    Capricious Goddess!­Beauty`s foe; 
    THOU­who no settled home dost know; 
    The busy World, the sylvan Plain, 
    Alike confess thy potent reign. 
Queen of the motley garb­at thy command
FASHION waves her flow`ry wand; 
    See she kindles Fancy`s flame, 
  Around her dome thy incense flies, 
  The curling fumes ascend the skies, 
    And fill the "Trump of Fame." 

  When Heaven`s translucent ray 
    Unveil`d the mighty work of GOD; 
  When the Promethean spark of day 
  Awoke his Image from a torpid clod; 
  When radiance pour`d on human sight, 
And the illumin`d Soul beam`d with celestial light;
    EXULTING MAN, sole Potentate below, 
    First felt thy pois`nous glow; 
    He gaz`d upon his wond`rous frame; 
    The self-approving conscious flame
  Thrill`d in each trembling vein with subtle art, 
Then fix`d its baneful source within his godlike Heart. 

  Thy breath accurs`d brought deathless woe
    On Man`s devoted race; 
  Hurl`d th` aspiring FIEND to realms below, 
    Who, plung`d in fell disgrace, 
  There deep enthrall`d in adamantine spells, 
  In chains of scorpions bound, for ever, ever dwells. 

      In ev`ry scene of social joy, 
    Amidst the rude unpolish`d train, 
    From the low offspring of the barren plain,
    To him whose lofty bosom owns 
    Descent sublime from scepter`d thrones, 
      All, all thy laws obey. 

Thy light hand plumes the warrior`s brow, 
Trims the fierce war with tinsel show, 
E`en in the tented fields thy banners flow, 
To thee illustrious Chieftans bow; 
`Tis thy capricious influence forms
All that mad ambition warms; 
The laurel wreath, tho` steep`d in blood, 
  Plac`d by thy fickle hand appears 
    Radiant as the sunny spheres, 
When Morn`s proud beams roll in a golden flood. 

    AH, VANITY! avert thine eye; 
    Check thy fell exulting joy; 
    With burning drops thy flush`d cheek lave. 
    Nor gloat upon the carnag`d brave: 
    For what can trophied wreaths supply, 
    To drown the desolating cry, 
    That, o`er th` empurpled fields afar, 
Proclaims the dread-destructive pow`r of War? 

  E`en amidst the SAVAGE race, 
    The untam`d INDIAN owns thy sway; 
  For THEE he paints his tawny face, 
And decks his shaggy hair with fragments gay: 
  For THEE he marks his sun-burnt breast, 
  With beads and feathers idly drest:­
  His hardy limbs with gaudy tints imbru`d, 
    Reeking and mangled with the pointed dart, 
  Vainly he vaunts­nor heeds the smart, 
Tho` pitying NATURE weeps with tears of blood. 

  Then turn my MUSE, where milder joys
  The village hero`s mind employs; 
  Where gentler sports delight the breast, 
  And soften`d Nature smiles confest. 
    Let me paint the rural scene, 
    The white-wash`d hut­the velvet green, 
    May`s blithe morn­exulting glee, 
    The chaplet pendant on each tree, 
    The shining hat with tawdry ribbands bound, 
    The lofty may-pole and the well-swept ground, 
    Where valiant combats speak the thirst of Fame, 
And the loud shout proclaims the victor`s name. 

    O VANITY, thy potent reign 
    Spreads its influence o`er the plain­
    For thee, the blushing maids prepare
    Garlands wove with nicest care, 
    For thee, they dress their festive bow`rs
    With waving wreaths of scented flow`rs, 
    Where the bold Youth that wins the prize
Reads his best Victory in his Sweetheart`s Eyes. 

    Such is thy pow`r­thy mandate rules
    Above the laws of Pedant Schools; 
    REASON, in vain contends with Thee, 
    TRIUMPHANT, DEATHLESS VANITY! 
    E`en now, I feel thy vivid sparks infuse 
A warmth that guides my hand, and bids me court the MUSE.
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