Maiden, that with sullen brow

Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lur'd thee and forsook, Oft I watch'd 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 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 beanfield's odorous blooms.

Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the Day-Star spring, And embathe in heavenly light.

1797.