"Unhappy maid!" she cry'd, "thou art to blame,
" Thus to expose thy virtuous breast to shame:
"Poor heart! thy love is laugh'd at for its truth;
" Yet 'tis a holy treasure, though disdain'd,
"And wantonly by thoughtlessness profan'd;
" Ah! why then waste the blessings of thy youth?
"No more fair reason's sacred light despise;
" Thy heart may blessings find
"That dwell not in the eyes,
" But in the virtues of the feeling mind. "