To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back,
Her hope despoiled—her vision, blind—
Or if on Virtue's holy brow,
A wreath of scorn I sought to twine—
And bade her minions mocking bow,
With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine—
Or if I mirrored to the thought,
With glorious truth the charms of earth,
While yet the trusting fool I taught,
To scoff at Him who gave it birth—