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,
Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,
While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.

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,
And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave,
Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are
laid.

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 :
But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,

God of the red right arm! where is thy thunderbolt?

ODES.

TO MY LYRE.

THOU simple Lyre! thy music wild
Has served to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guiled,
When even pain has own'd, and smiled,
Its fascinating power.

Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd
Will little heed thy simple tones;
Them mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross, and thou and I must shroud
Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

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,
Or build the polish'd rhyme.

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
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,
Perhaps from me debarr'd ;

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
Where Cam or Isis winds along,
Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste

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,
And through the long, the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,

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.