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Rh The inlets of a tranquil lake. 'Tis morn! This hour they should regain the capital. They stop,—o, voice,—whence? From the corner towerI They listen,—'tis the voice of the recluse! Long time within this tower, ten summers since, Some unknown pious woman, from afar, Who came to Mary's town,—Maybe that Heaven Inspired her blest design, or with the balm Of penance she would heal the wounds of conscience,— Did seek the shelter of a lone recluse. And here she found while living yet a tomb.

Long time the chaplains would not give consent. Then, wearied by the constancy of prayers. They gave her in this tower a shelter lone. Scarcely the sacred threshold had she crossed. When o'er the threshold bricks and stones were piled; The angels only, in the judgment-day Shall ope the door which parts her from the living.

Above a little window and a grate, Whereby the pious folk send nourishment,