Is not thy mind a gentle mind?
Is not that heart a heart refined?
Hast thou not every gentle grace,
We love in woman's mind and face?
And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin
To hold her hateful worship in?
No, no, be happy — dry that tear —
Though some thy heart hath harbored near,
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;
Though all the world look cold upon thee,
Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still
Unharmed by that surrounding chill;
Like the famed drop, in crystal found,
Floating, while all was frozen round,—
Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,
Safe in thy own sweet purity.