Evil-eyed loiterer, pilgrim of fashion,
Sunless and hard is thy frost-bitten heart;
Scoffing at nature's affection and passion,
Till thou hast made the sad angels depart:
Sinner and fool! to be searing and sealing
All the sweet fountains of spirit and truth--
Quick to be free from the freshness of feeling,
Swift to escape from the fervours of youth.

Woe to thee -- woe! for thy criminal coldness;
Oh, I could pity thee, desolate man,
But that those eyes, in their insolent boldness,
Tempt me to scorn such a state, if I can:
Wearied of hunting the shadows of pleasures,
Thou art half dead in the prime of thy days,
Emptied of Heaven's and Earth's better treasures,
Victim and slave to the world and its ways!

Early and late at thy dull dissipation,
Listlessly indolent even in sin,
What is thy soul but a pool of stagnation,
Calmness without, and corruption within?
Happiness, honour, and peace, and affection--
These were thy heritage every one,--
But as thou meetest them all with rejection,
They have rejected thee, Prodigal Son!

O that humility, gracious as duteous,
Lighten'd those eyelids so heavy with scorn!
O that sincerity, blessed as beauteous,
Gilded thy night with the promise of morn!
Frankness of mind is the best of high breeding--
Kindness of soul the true Gentleman's part;
And the first fashion all fashions exceeding,
Is the warm gush of a generous heart!