Poem by Christian Milne

To a Very Imprudent Young Woman

WHY all this haste, unhappy Maid,
To reach the goal of shame?
Why rush so fast from fault to fault,
Nor think yourself to blame?
Your beauty's but a whited wall,
When Virtue's laid aside;
When Prudence or a sage advice
No more you make your guide.
Unmov'd you see your Mother's eyes
Weep floods to wash your stains,
To cleanse your lost polluted fame,
Their source she ceaseless drains.
You're now your widow'd Mother's curse,
Tho' late her pride and hope;
She fondly thought your growing years
Would be her age's prop.
In vain she strain'd your infant limbs
Within her tender arms,
And pray'd your Heavenly GUIDE to keep
Her much lov'd child from harms.
You've wander'd like the foolish Lamb,
That loath'd the fold's restraint,
And languish'd liberty to taste
When other flocks were pent:
Who, while her fleecy kindred slept,
Run, wanton'd, frisk'd, and play'd,
But soon became a prey to Wolves,
Like you, deluded Maid!
O! think, before you meet the grave;
Reflect, repent, and live;
With penitence your steps retrace,
And GOD will yet forgive.

1. Written on the Morning of the Communion Sabbath
2. The Sailor’s Adieu
3. When in Dread of My Husband’s Safety at Sea
4. To a Lady, Who Did Me the Honour to Call at My House
5. The Inconstant Lover

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