On a Magdalen by Guido

Mary, when thou wert a virgin,
Ere the first, the fatal sin,
Stole into thy bosom's chamber,
Leading six companions in;
Ere those eyes had wept an error,
What thy beauty must have been!
Ere those lips had paled their crimson,
Quivering with the soul's despair,
Ere with pain they oft had parted
In thine agony of prayer,
Or, instead of pearls, the tear-drops
Glistened in thy streaming hair.
While in ignorance of sorrow
Still thy heart serenely dreamed,
And the morning light of girlhood
On thy cheek's young garden beam'd,
Where th' abundant rose was blushing,
Not of earth couldst thou have seem'd.
When thy frailty fell upon thee,
Lovely wert thou, even then;
Shame itself could not disarm thee
Of the charms that vanquished men;
Which of Salem's purest daughters
Match'd the sullied Magdalen?
But thy Master's eye beheld thee
Foul and all unworthy heaven:
Pitied, pardon'd, purged thy spirit
Of its black, pernicious leaven;
Drove the devils from out the temple —
All the dark and guilty seven.
Oh the beauty of repentance!
Mary, tenfold fairer now
Art thou with those dewy eyelids,
And that anquish on thy brow:
Ah, might every sinful sister
Grow in beauty ev'n as thou!