THE MAGDALENS. An ELEGY

At yonder hallow'd rail what scenes appear? A num'rous train of suppliant nymphs I spy! Their youthful cheek is pal'd with early care, And sorrow dwells in their dejected eye.

Hark! they awake a solemn plaintive lay, Where grief with harmony delights to meet; Not Philomela from her lonely spray, Trills her clear note more querulously sweet.

Are these the fair who wont with conscious grace, Proud Ranelagh's resplendent round to tread? Shine in the studied luxury of dress! And vie in beauty with the high-born maid!

The smiling scenes of pleasure they forsake, Obey no more amusement's idle call; Nor mingling with the sons of mirth partake, The treat voluptuous, or the festive ball.

For sober weeds they change their bright attire, Of the pearl bracelet strip the graceful arm; Veil the white breast, that lately sigh'd desire, And to the wrapt eye heav'd, th' imprison'd charm.

Unbraid the cunning tresses of the hair, And each well-fancied ornament-remove; The glowing gem, the glitt'ring solitaire— The costly spoils of prostituted love!

Yet beauty lingers on their mournful brow, As loth to leave the cheek bedew'd with tears; Which scarcely blushing with a languid glow, Like morn's faint beam thro' drizzling rain appears.

No more compare them to the stately flow'r, Whose painted foliage wantons in the gale: They look the lily drooping from the show'r, Or the pale vi'let sick'ning in the vale.

Let not the prude with acrimonious taunt, Upbraid the humble tenants of this dome; That pleasure's rosy bow'r they us'd to haunt, And in the walk of loose-rob'd dalliance roam.

If fond of empire and of conquest vain, They frequent vot'ries to their altars drew; Yet blaz'd those altars to the fair one's bane, The idol they, and they the victim too!

Some in this sacred mansion may reside, Whose parent's ashes drank their early tears; And hapless orphans! trod without a guide, The maze of life perplext with guileful snares.

Some that encircled by the great and rich, Were won by wiles, and deep-designing art; By splendid bribes, and soft persuasive speech, Of pow'r to cheat the young unguarded heart.

Some on whom beauty breath'd her radiant bloom, Whilst adverse stars all other gifts remov'd; Who fled from mis'ry and a dungeon's gloom, To scenes their inborn virtue disapprov'd.

What tho' their youth imbib'd an early stain, Now gilded by the rays of new-born fame; A second innocence they here obtain, And cloister'd penance heals their wounded name.

So the young myrtles nipt by treach'rous cold, (While still the summer yields his golden store) In shelt'ring walls their tender leaves unfold, And breathe a sweeter fragrance than before.

Tho' white-wing'd peace protect this calm abode, Tho' each illicit passion be suppress'd; Still recollection wears a sting to goad, Still fang'd remorse invades their anxious breast.

The tort'ring hour of mem'ry this may prove, Who wrapt in pensive secresy forlorn; Sits musing on the pledges of her love, Expos'd to chilly want, and grinning scorn:

Forgot, deserted in th' extremest need, By him who ought to shield their tender age: Was this seducer this the promis'd meed! She cries, then sinks beneath affliction's rage.

Another mourns her fall with grief sincere, Whom tranquil reason tells she's shun'd, disdain'd; Repuls'd as vile by those who held her dear, Who call'd her once companion, sister, friend.

That recollects the day when lost to shame, She fondly sacrific'd her vestal charms: Resign'd the virgin's, for an harlot's name, And left a parent's for a spoiler's arms.

Imagination pencils to her mind The father's rage, the mother's softer woe: Unhappy pair! to that distress consign'd, A child can give, a parent only know.

The tragic picture fixes sorrow's dart, While filial passions in her breast revive: She feels beak'd anguish preying at her heart, To nature's pangs too sensibly alive!

If this or similar tormenting thought, Cling to their soul, when pensively alone; For youth's offence, for Love's alluring fault, Say, do they not sufficiently atone!

Oh mock not then their penitential woes, Thou who may'st deign to mark this humble theme; Nor seek with foul derision to expose, And give to infamy their tainted name.

Nor deem me one of melancholy's train, If anxious for the sorrow-wedded fair; (Tho little skilful of poetic strain, Whose pleasing music takes the tuneful ear.)

I steal impatient from the idle throng, The roving gay companions of my age; To temper with their praise my artless song, And soft-ey'd pity in their cause engage.

'Tis virtue's task to soothe affliction's smart, To join in sadness with the fair distrest: Wake to another's pain the tender heart, And move to sympathy the feeling breast.