To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre

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.