Maiden, that with sullen brow
       &nbspSitt'st behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
       &nbspLeafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lur'd thee and forsook,
       &nbspOft I watch'd with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,
       &nbspAnxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the Youth,
       &nbspSoft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple Truth,
       &nbspBut no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot,
       &nbspHie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
       &nbspWith a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
       &nbspThou hast felt that Vice is woe:
With a musing melancholy
       &nbspInly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,
       &nbspFirm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in Wisdom's pinion
       &nbspIs the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
       &nbspWhile she moults the firstling plumes,
That had skimm'd the tender corn,
       &nbspOr the beanfield's odorous blooms.

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