The heavy flood of tears unlock,
     More precious than the Scriptured rock;
     At least instil a happier mood,
     And bring them back to womanhood.

     Alas! how many lost ones claim
     This refuge from despair and shame! 
     How many, longing for the light,
     Sink deeper in the abyss this night!

     O, crying sin!  O, blushing thought! 
     Not only unto those that wrought
     The misery and deadly blight;
     But those that outcast them this night!

     O, agony of grief! for who
     Less dainty than his race, will do
     Such battle for their human right,
     As shall awake this startled night?

     Proclaim this evil human page
     Will ever blot the Golden Age
     That poets dream and saints invite,
     If it be unredeemed this night?

     This night of deep solemnity,
     And verdurous serenity,
     While over every fleecy field
     The dews descend and odours yield.

     This night of gleaming floods and falls,
     Of forest glooms and sylvan calls,
     Of starlight on the pebbly rills,
     And twilight on the circling hills.

     This night! when from the paths of men
     Grey error steams as from a fen;
     As o’er this flaring City wreathes
     The black cloud-vapour that it breathes!

     This night from which a morn will spring
     Blooming on its orient wing;
     A morn to roll with many more
     Its ghostly foam on the twilight shore.

     Morn! when the fate of all mankind
     Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind. 
     His duties of the day will seem
     The fact of life, and mine the dream: 

     The destinies that bards have sung,
     Regeneration to the young,
     Reverberation of the truth,
     And virtuous culture unto youth!

     Youth! in whose season let abound
     All flowers and fruits that strew the ground,
     Voluptuous joy where love consents,
     And health and pleasure pitch their tents: 

     All rapture and all pure delight;
     A garden all unknown to blight;
     But never the unnatural sight
     That throngs the shameless song this night!

     Song

     Under boughs of breathing May,
     In the mild spring-time I lay,
     Lonely, for I had no love;
     And the sweet birds all sang for pity,
     Cuckoo, lark, and dove.

     Tell me, cuckoo, then I cried,
     Dare I woo and wed a bride? 
     I, like thee, have no home-nest;
     And the twin notes thus tuned their ditty, —
     ‘Love can answer best.’

     Nor, warm dove with tender coo,
     Have I thy soft voice to woo,
     Even were a damsel by;
     And the deep woodland crooned its ditty, —
     ‘Love her first and try.’