O! false, alluring phantoms,
Which led my feet astray,
In paths to ruin leading,
From wisdom's peaceful way.
Yet is maternal culture
Most salutary still;
The frost of vice may wither
The germ it cannot kill.
The tide of sinful pleasure
Its poisonous wave may roll,
And long the blighting tempest
May chill the youthful soul;
It cannot kill—no, never—
(Then, mothers, don't despair!)
The seeds of moral virtue,
So early planted there.
Some heaven-directed sun-beams
Will shine around, and then,
Warm'd by its genial influence,
They'll vegetate again.
My subject, how it brightens!
Be fired, my soul, anew,
In numbers sweet as heaven,
The ope'ning theme pursue.
Farewell, my sinful murmurs.
Farewell, my sighs and tears;
Farewell, thou night of horror,
The morn of joy appears!
The beams of heavenly goodness,
How bright they shine around,
A sea of living pleasure,
Where all my griefs are drown'd!
From this glad hour, for ever,
Be gratitude my song;
My moments, fraught with transport,
Shall joyful dance along.
The mercy of my Saviour,
What angel tongue can tell,
It blazes thro' creation,
And cheers the night of hell!