The Dying Prostitute

COLD blew the blast with hollow the,
And dreary was the night;
In which the hail ungenial dropt,
Diffusing baleful blight.
‘Twas then beside the common path,
Her head on earth reclin’d,
The poor deserted Lucy lay,
And shiver’d to the wind.
No house had she, sad wretch, forlorn,
Wherein to shield that head;
And hunger, cold, and fell disease,
And guilt upon her prey’d.
Like rav’ning eagles void of food,
They fasten’d to her corse;
They lacerated all her heart,
And drank of life the source.
A fierce and withering disease,
By heav’n in terror sent,
Of unconfin’d unhallow’d love,
As the dread punishment,

Had desolated all her form,
Where youthful loves once play’d,
Her full delicious hair had mow’d,
Her breath had fetid made.
Ah! how unlike to what she was,
Of virtue when approv’d,
When in her father’s house she dwelt,
By all her village lov’d!
The lily which luxuriant grows,
In some sequester’d vale,
Near some pure stream, and shelter’d round
From ev’ry ruder gale;
Which nature’s fragrant fav’rite blooms,
Scenting the ambient air,
That lily was not sweeter then,
And was not half so fair.
Nor was that most unhappy sire,
Whom his lov’d child’s disgrace,
To death had immaturely giv’n,
Of an ignoble race.
But now no pois’nous weed obscene,
Of curs’d malignant growth,
Could torture more the aching sense,
And cause it more to loath.

And as the wretched outcast lay
Upon the chilly earth.
In still low sounds she falt’ring breath’d
These plaintive accents fortb.
“Daughters of virtue! I will own,
“Here while I grieve in dust,
“Your indignation to be wise,
“Your censure to be just.
“I mourn the loss of virtuous fame,
“As for blithe rose-cheek’d health,
“Languish the sick, or famish’d poor
“For comfort-giving wealth.
“Ah how I rue my hapless fall!
“How curse the black-wing’d day,
“Which gave me (ah! could hell do worse?)
“A prostitute to stray!
“Yet did your mild ingenuous hearts,
“Our various mis’ries know,
“Our lonesome days, the grinning scorn,
“Which mocks where’er we go;
“Though ye would still detest th’ offence,
“Yet o’er the offender’s head,
“Soft pity, for it dwells with you,
“A tear would make you shed.

“But men are unrelenting, harsh:
“Night wolves which hunt for prey,
“Through long-corroding hunger, wild,”
“Are scarce more fierce than they.”
As thus she spake, a churlish watch,
Who her lamentings heard,
With many a sharp and brutal taunt,
Her ghastly form uprear’d.
Which unto prison as he dragg’d,
Through pain and wo out-tir’d,
From his rude grasp she fell, and groan’d,
And at his feet expir’d.
The gen’rous bard, thou gloomy shade!
Who married wast to wo,
Gives, while he reprobates thy crime,
A tear for thee to flow.
For many a dark flagitious scheme,
And many a treach’rous art,
Did thy seducer practice, ere
He lur’d thy gentle heart.
Then flush’d with youth, and fortune’s smile,
Thy fall and ruin’d fame,
As if it wreath’d his brow with bay,
Dar’d wontonly proclaim.

But heav’n his ill-weav’d happiness,
In ire arous’d shall blast;
And on his head, in warning wrath,
Its vengeance-bolt shall cast.
O Chastity, salubrious gift,
Sent from the pow’r above,
As guardian of our sweetest bliss,
The bliss of wedded love!
The woman who thy law contemns,
What feral ills annoy!
Thou spare and icy-bosom’d nurse
Of hallow’d love and joy!
For though she ‘scape the cruel woes,
The pensive muse has sung,
Yet shall her grace decay through grief,
And her mid-heart be wrung.
But the unspotted virgin pure,
Whom thou vouchsaf’st inspire,
Who checks, ere it dilates, each spark
Of Love’s unhallow’d fire;
Laments exquisite remorse,
No rude pernicious care,
Which makes, e’en in the spring of youth,
The leaf of beauty sear.

To her in purity refin’d,
Alone to live ’tis giv’n,
That she from all distraction free,
May form herself for heav’n.
Or by her lover with delight,
To marriage she is led,
With deathless wreaths of laughing flow’rs,
He decks the genial bed.
A train of fair-ey’d pleasures wait,
In beautiful array;
And smiling hours with pinions white,
Succeed th’ auspicious day.
And the glad fire, in th’ eve of life,
When cheerful joys are few,
Feels at her bliss those transports warm,
Which in blithe youth he knew.