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before the cross she weepeth, Weeping even while she prays; Golden o'er her mourning garments Fall the oriel's coloured rays;— Like the false and shining seeming Of this life's external show, Veiling with an outward glitter All that lies do dark below.

Many graves are round her lying, Only one is in her heart; How could one so lovely perish? Why should one so young depart?— With the crimson banners round her, 'Neath the scutcheon's gilded shade, 'Mid her old ancestral honours Is a youthful maiden laid.