Her hair was black as a raven’s wings,
Her cheek the tulip’s hue did wear,
Her voice was soft as when night winds sing,
Her brow was as a moonbeam fair;
Her sire had joined the wake of war;-
The battle-shock, the shout, and scar
He knew, and gained a glorious grave-
Such is the guerdon of the brave!-
Her anguished mother’s suffering heart
Could not endure a widow’s part;
She sunk beneath her soul’s distress,
And left her infant parentless.-
She hath no friend on this cold, bleak earth,
To give her a shelter, a home, and a hearth;
Through life’s dreary desert alone she must wend,
For alas! the wretched have never a friend!
And should she stray from virtue’s way,
The world will scorn, and its scorn can slay.
Ah! Shame hath enough to wring the breast
With a weight of sorrow and guilt oppresed;
But Oh! ’tis coldly cruel to wound
The bosom whose blood must gush unbound.
No tear is so bright as the tear that flows
For erring woman’s unpitied woes;
And blest be for ever his honoured name
Who shelters an orphan from sorrow and shame!