THE PROSTITUTE. DACTYLICS. WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart; Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from inno cence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happi ness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; None after thee inquires with solicitude; Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent; But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down : God of the red right arm! where is thy thunderbolt? ODES. TO MY LYRE. THOU simple Lyre! thy music wild Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd No hand, thy diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep For me, no academic lore sublime; Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main. These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree. This little dirge will please me more Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard. And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell To listen to my song. Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, Should swell the note of praise. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! And cradled in the winds. Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. |