The Prostitute

Say, art thou all that vice hath left,

Sport of her treacherous power –

Of every sweet at length bereft,

Thou fair but blighted flower.


No more will tinge that pallid cheek

The blush unknown to shame,

No more those dark dimmed eyes will speak

Of peace and spotless fame.


Abhorred by men, accursed on high,

Dragged in pollution’s train,

Doomed long to heave the fruitless sigh,

Which breathes its prayer in vain.


Full many a year with lingering flight

May steep those eyes in sorrow,

Of woe’s dark depth one changeless night,

Which hopes no joyful morrow.


By all forsaken – thou wilt bear

The heart which only lives to anguish –

No welcome voice will greet thine ear,

To soothe death’s hour of hopeless anguish.