SONNET XXI. TO AN UNFORTUNATE FEMALE.
And one false step entirely damns her name.
Rowe.
Friendless, unpitied wand'rer of the night,
The scorn of Pride, who seldom learns to feel,
O that thy painful suff'rings I could heal,
And shield thee from a world too apt to slight!
Dead are the blushes that did once adorn
The cheek of Virtue, some fond parent's pride,
Who dreamt not syren Pleasure, in life's morn,
From Virtue's path would draw thy steps aside.
And shall Misfortune then make vice a law?
Must bleeding Innocence steal from thy breast?
Shall thy keen sorrows banish Peace and Rest,
And calm Reflection come too late?—Ah, no!
Thou child of Misery, of each joy bereft,
Religion's saving comfort yet for thee is left!
