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TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE.

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soiled beneath the common tread,
Far from thy protecting spray!

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirred along the yellow vale,

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

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
Sittest behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorched and mildewed bough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watched with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

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,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:

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,
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 scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.

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,
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

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