The early love of song--the sigh that broke
From her young lip--the best-beloved employ--
What womanhood disclosed in infancy bespoke.

A child of passion--tenderest and best
Of all that heart has inly loved and felt;
Adorned the fair enclosure of her breast--
Where passion is not found, no virtue ever dwelt.

Yet not, perverted, would my words imply
The impulse given by Heaven's great Artizan
Alike to man and worm--mere spring, whereby
The distant wheels of life, while time endures, roll on--

But the collective ministry that fill
About the soul, their all-important place--
That feed her fires--empower her fainting will--
And write the god on feeble mortals face.


III.

Yet anger, or revenge, envy or hate
The damsel knew not: when her bosom burned
And injury darkened the decrees of fate,
She had more pitious wept to see that pain returned.

Or if, perchance, tho' formed most just and pure,
Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,
Such germ all mortal bosoms must immure