Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/315

Here Crime hath spread a loathsome snare
    For souls of lighter stain,
And Shame hath cowered, and Anguish drained
    The darkest dregs of pain,
And Punishment its doom hath dealt,
    Relentless as the grave,
And spurned the sinful fellow-worm,
    Whom Jesus died to save.

Yes, here they are, the fallen so low,
    Who bear our weaker form,
Whose rude and haggard features tell
    Of passion's wrecking storm,
And still, on ring or trinket gay,
    Are bent their eager eyes,
As though by habitude constrained
    To seize the unlawful prize.

Yet be not strict their faults to mark,
    Nor hasty to condemn,
Oh thou, whose erring human heart
    May not have swerved like them;
But with the tear-drop on thy cheek
    Adore that guardian Power,
Who held thee on the slippery steep
    Amid the trial-hour.