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THE RINGLET. 243 |
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And thou art motherless ! O, what affection Wilt thou e'er find like hers who sleeps in dust ?
And in the hour of gladness, or affliction, What heart, like hers, can claim thy fearless trust ?
Ah, none! Then well may that soft shade of sadness, Rest on thy features, long thy loss to tell! Well might thy heart lose all its gush of gladness, When' thy young mother whisper'd her farewell!
And shall a treach'rous world, its charms distilling, Allure thy guileless, unsuspecting heart ?
Or, will its coldness, thy young spirit chilling, Lead thee to seek for Mary's " better part V
O! shall the depths of thy young heart's devotion,
Be early laid upon some worthless shrine ? Or, the pure spirit's holiest emotion,
Be placed upon an altar all divine ?
Ah! woman's fate is patient, suff'ring meekness, That with a firm resolve still struggles on;
Mild and submissive in her trusting weakness— Her lot is on thee, 0, thou gentle one! . |
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