Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE MAGDALEN Charity was established in the year 1758. A commodious habitation was engaged, in PRESCOT STREET, by the promoters of this benevolent institution, and the house was opened on the tenth of August, when eight unhappy objects were admitted.

In the year 1772, the charity was removed to a more spacious building in ST. GEORGE'S FIELDS.

See to you fane the suppliant Nymphs repair,
At Virtue's shrine to breathe Contrition's sigh:
Their youthful cheek is pal'd with early care,
And sorrow dwells in their dejected eye.

Hark! they awake a solemn plaintive lay,
Where Grief with Harmony delights to meet:
Not Philomela from her lonely spray,
Trills her clear note more querulously sweet.

Are these the fair (late Pleasure's Festive quire)
Who wont the dome of Luxury to tread?
Who deck'd in varying fashion's new attire,
Still vied in splendor with the high-born Maid?

For sober weeds they change their flowing train,
Of the pearl bracelet strip the graceful arm,
Conceal the breast that glow'd in ev'ry vein,
And madden'd into joy at Love's alarm.

Ah now no more the diamond's dazzling ray
Darts from the artful mazes of the hair;
No more those tresses garishly display
The idle plumes that sportive mock'd the air.

Yet Beauty lingers on their mournful brow,
As loth to leave the cheek suffus'd with tears,
Which scarcely blushing with a languid glow,
Like Morn's faint beam thro' gath'ring mist appears.

No more compare them to the gaudy flow'r,
Whose painted foliage wantons in the gale:
They look the lily drooping from the show'r,
Or the pale violet sick'ning in the vale.

If fond of empire and of conquest vain,
They frequent vot'ries to their altars drew,
Yet blaz'd those dazz'ling altars to their bane,
The idol they, and they the victim too!

Once destitute of counsel, aid, or food,
Some helpless orphans in this dome reside,
Who (like the wand'ring children in the wood)
Trod the rude paths of life without a guide.

Some who encircled by the great and rich
Were won by wiles and deep-designing art,
By splendid bribes, and soft persuasive speech,
Of pow'r to cheat the young unguarded heart.

Some on whom Beauty breath'd her radiant bloom,
While adverse stars all other gifts remov'd;
Who hurried from the dungeon's living tomb,
To scenes their inborn virtue disapprov'd.

What tho' their youth imbib'd an early stain,
A second innocence is now their claim;
While in the precincts of this blesss'd domain,
They bask beneath the rays of rising Fame.

So the young myrtles in Misfortune's day,
Nipt by the blast that swept their vernal bed,
In shelt'ring walls their tender leaves display,
And wak'ning into life new fragrance shed.

Tho' white-wing'd Peace protect this calm abode,
Tho' each tumultuous passion be suppress'd,
Still Recollection wears a sting to goad,
Still Conscience wakes to rob their soul of rest.

See one the tort'ring hour of mem'ry prove,
Who wrapt in pensive secrecy forlorn,
Sits musing on the pledges of her love,
Who fell the victims of paternal scorn:

Forgot, deserted in th' extremest need,
By him who shou'd have rear'd their tender age:
‘Was this, Seducer, this the promis'd meed?’
She cries—then sinks beneath Affliction's rage:

Her busy mind recalls the fatal plain,
Which with slow lab'ring steps she journey'd o'er,
Half-yielding to the fierce impetuous rain,
While in her arms two helpless babes she bore:

Her mind recalls how at that awful hour
The dismal Owlet scream'd her shiv'ring note,
How shriek'd the Spirit from the haunted tow'r,
While other sounds of woe were heard remote:

How to the covert of a tott'ring shed,
As Night advanc'd, she fearfully retir'd;
And as around the dark'ning horror spread,
Her famish'd infants on her breast expir'd:

How keenest Anguish bade her bosom bleed,
As there she brooded o'er her hapless state:
‘Was this, Seducer, this the promis'd meed?’
She cries—then sinks beneath Affliction's weight.

Another mourns her fall with grief sincere.
Whom tranquil Reason tells she's shun'd, disdain'd
Repuls'd as vile, by those who held her dear,
Who call'd her once Companion, Sister, Friend.

That recollects the day when lost to shame,
She fondly sacrific'd her vestal charms,
Resign'd the virgin's for an harlot's name,
And left a parent's for a spoiler's arms.

Imagination pictures to her mind
The father's rage, the mother's softer woe:
Unhappy pair! to that distress consign'd,
A child can give, a parent only know.

At this deep scene, by Fancy drawn, impress'd,
The filial passions in her heart revive:
Reproach vindictive, rushes on her breast,
To Nature's pangs too feelingly alive.

If this, or similar tormenting thought,
Cling to their soul, when pensively alone,
For youth's offence, for Love's alluring fault,
Say, do they not sufficiently atone?

Nor deem me one of Melancholy's train,
If anxious for the sorrow-wedded Fair,
Tho' little skilful of that heav'nly strain,
Whose melting numbers to the heart repair:

I steal impatient from the idle throng,
The roving gay companions of my age,
To temper with their praise my artless song,
And soft-ey'd Pity in their cause engage.

'Tis Virtue's task to soothe Affliction's smart,
To join in sadness with the Fair distrest:
Wake to another's pain the tender heart,
And urge to clemency the rigid breast.

This poem was first published in 1763.