THOU lovely penitent! whose long-drawn sighs
Bespeak a breast o’ercharg’d with silent grief;
O lift once more to heav’n thy downcast eyes,
Whence only woes, like thine, can hope relief!
Think not, that righteous Heav’n disdains to hear
The contrite sigh that rends thy troubled breast;
Or sees unmov’d that penitential tear,
The faithful witness of a mind oppress’d.
Ah, no!-the being, whose all-judging eye
Beheld thy guilt, now, with a father’s care,
Sees thy keen sorrows, nor will e’er deny
His promis’d pardon to thy humble pray’r.
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Daughters of Virtue!-ye whose spotless fame
Courts, unappall’d, the searching beam of day,
Turn not with scorn, from Adelina’s name,
Tho’ now ye bask in Honour’s cloudless ray.
Unpitying can ye view that lovely cheek,
By deep remorse, despoil’d of all its bloom!
That form, which ev’ry grace conspires to deck,
Thus slowly sinking to its early tomb!
Once she was innocent, and then the rose
Of beauty dazzled each admiring eye;
And those dark beaming orbs, which soon must close,
Charm’d ev’ry heart, and wak’d the trembling sigh.
Then, where gay Pleasure leads the mazy dance,
O’er ev’ry nymph she shone like Beauty’s Queen!
Joy laugh’d exulting in each sportive glance,
And artless Nature triumph’d in her mein!
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Like you, she lightly tripp’d, devoid of care,
Devoid of guilt, with conscious charms elate;
Her hopes, like yours, were radiant all and fair,
Her fame unsully’d, and her mind as great.
Now, with faint steps she treads the pebbly shore,
While Zephyr fans her burning cheek in vain;
Unseen by her, the circling sea-fowl soar,
Or skim with light wing o’er the foamy main.
The shady mist that wrapt yon mountain’s height,
Whose rocky base frowns o’er the murmuring deep,
Sun-struck, dissolving into golden light,
No more invites her to the airy steep.
One cheerless prospect meets her downcast eye,
One sad idea fills her absent mind;
Nor earth, nor air, nor ocean, can supply
The joys that fled, with innocence resign’d.
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And has futurity no bliss in store?
Yes, lovely mourner! pitying, Heav’n prepares
A lasting mansion on that peaceful shore,
Where weeping penitence forgets its cares.
Oh! thither turn thine eyes-nor let Despair,
With hand remorseless, quench that guiding ray,
Which holy Faith and pious Hope prepare
To cheer the contrite pilgrims weary way.
(Maria Logan)
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