TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, Whom the Author had known in the days of her Innocence. MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped, When the Partridge o'er the sheaf Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf! Love the dalliance of the gale. Lightly didst thou, foolish thing! While the flatterer, on his wing, Wooed and whisper'd thee to rise. Gaily from thy mother-stalk Wert thou danced and wafted high Soon on this unshelter'd walk Flung to fade, to rot and die. ΤΟ AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN At the Theatre. MAIDEN, that with sullen brow Him who lured thee and forsook, Fearful saw his pleading look, Soft the glances of the youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; But no sound like simple truth, But no true love in his eye. Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of Self-dominion, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Is the memory of past folly. Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm❜d the tender corn, Or the bean-field's odorous blooms. Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd, His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play, By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The Things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. |