Oh how can love exulting reason quell?
How fades each nobler passion from his gaze—
E'en fame, that cherishes the poet's lays,
That fame ill-fated Sappho loved so well?
Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell
Wastes the short summer of delicious days,
And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays
In passion's thorny wild forlorn to dwell.
Oh ye who in that sacred temple smile
Where holy innocence resides enshrined,
Who fear not sorrow, and who know not guile
(Each thought composed, and every wish resigned),
Tempt not the path where pleasure's flowery wile
In sweet, but poisonous, fetters holds the mind.