The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 51 60 THE PROSTITUTE. DACTYLICS. 1 WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish guaws at thy heavy heart; 2 Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, 3 Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurn'd by the beings who lured thee from inno cence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; 4 Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! 5 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 ; 6 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. 7 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. 8 Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent: 9 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. 1 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. 2 Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd 3 No hand, thy diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 4 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. 5 These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 6 This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; 7 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. 8 And oh! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 9 Oh! then, my little friend, thy style Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, Should swell the note of praise. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 1 MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds, 2 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. 3 In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. 4 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; 5 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows. Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. |