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! Lightly didst thou, foolish thing! Heave and flutter to his sighs, Wooed and whispered thee to rise. Gaily from thy mother-stalk Wert thou danced and wafted high Soon on this unsheltered walk Flung to fade, to rot and die. TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE. MAIDEN, that with sullen brow Him who lured thee and forsook, 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, Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy Inly armed, 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 skimmed the tender corn, 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! My lady eyes some maid of humbler state |