She walk'd alone in the mingled throng,
But there were none to greet her;
The merry dance and the evening song
To her were one day sweeter.
She was dress'd in the pride of fashion's glare,
And diamonds round her glitter'd;
But beneath them lay a soul of care,
By distant thoughts embitter'd.
I saw her smile as her gallant pass'd,—
'Twas the smile of the broken-hearted;
I watch'd her eye as she turn'd away,—
The tear to that eye had started.
For she thought of the times when she led the dance,
A stranger to sin and sorrow:
She thought of the times when the joys of to-day
But sweeten'd the joys of the morrow.
She thought of the cot and the rustic gown,
And the hearts that once adored her;
She thought of the parents that bless'd their child,
Ere vice and falsehood sold her.
For Mary was once the pride of the plain,
The happiest fair of the fair:
The flute and the cymbal welcomed her then,—
They were silent unless she was there.
But now there are none to hear her woes,
Or join in her tale of sorrow,—
To wipe from her eye the penitent tear,
Or chase away thoughts of the morrow.
Yes, Mary, there's one whose heart beats for thee yet,
Who thinks of her child far away,—
Who blesses thee still, in the stranger land,
Tho' mouldering fast to decay.
She weeps for thee e'en in the midnight hour,
When Care may have lull'd thee to sleep;
She prays for her once adored, still beloved child,—
She prays, but she turns to weep.
She prays to the Power that rules the winds
That He will ne'er forsake her;
She prays the prayer of a parent's grief,
That the God who gave may take her.
Child of sin! to thy parent speed,
For she will yet receive thee;
Her bosom yet will feel thy pangs,
Her cares will yet relieve thee.
For know that Love can only rest
Where Virtue guards the way;
The hand of Vice may prune the plant,—
Its blossoms soon decay.