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the cross the flower is winding, Around the old and ruined wall; And with its fragile flowers, binding The arch with which it soon must fall. And two before that cross are praying,— One, with her earnest eyes above; The other, as the heart, delaying, Blent heavenly with some earthly love.

St. Marie's shrine is now laid lowly, Shivered its windows' rainbow panes; Silent its hymn;— that pale flower solely, Of all its former pride remains. Hushed is the ancient anthem, keeping The vigil of the silent night; Gone is the censer's silver sweeping; Dim is the sacred taper's light.

True, the rapt soul's divine emotion The desert wind to heaven may bear; 'Tis not the shrine that makes devotion, The place that sanctifies the prayer; But yet I grieve that, thus departed, The faith has left the fallen cell; How many, lorn and broken-hearted, Were thankful in their shade to dwell!

Not on the young mind, filled with fancies And hopes, whose gloss is not yet gone; Not on the early world's romances, Should the cell close its funeral stone! Still is the quiet cloister wanted, For those who wear a weary eye; Whose life has long been disenchanted, Who have one only wish—to die.

How oft the heart of woman, yearning For love it dreams but never meets, From the world, worn and weary, turning, Could shelter in these dim retreats! Then were that solemn quiet given, That life's harsh, feverish, hours deny! Then might the last prayer rise to heaven, "My God! I pray thee, let me die!”