Lucretia

Lucretia, who shall praise thee ? Many hearts
Have softened at thy tale, and many eyes
Have wept for thee !
Thou wert a lovely flower
Till a foul worm dared to pollute thy bosom ;
And when thou pour'dst thy tarnish'd beauties forth,
Like rose-leaves scattered to the breeze that loved them,
A star thou wert, beauteously eminent
In lustrous purity : but a dark cloud
Gathered upon thy brow, and thou didst fall
From the high sphere where none have shone like thee ;
Thy bosom was the shrine where injur'd faith
Gave innocence a sacrifice to virtue !
Few after thee have seen the rose of love,
And chastity's lily, sisters on a stem,
And partless in their being.
Alas ! the heat
Of brutish love, beguiled them of their fragrance,
And they did fade.
The silver-plumaged bird,
When crime's foul breath defiled her spotless wings,
Closed them for ever.
The voice of whispering calumny did not dare
Breathe of her memory ; envy's spotted tongue
Was silent o'er her deathbed ; and she fell
Like a young blooming plant before the wind,
With sorrow's blessing.