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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 bean-field's odorous blooms.
Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight,
Upward to the day-star spring
And embathe in heavenly light.
